Life, Liberty, & Vodka Tonics

Rising from the ashes... or the cheddar bunny dust...

2010-03-15T09:08:00.000-07:00

So. Yeah. Um…
You know what I hate? When someone writes on their blog regularly for a long time and then they’re all ………. *crickets*…………
And you’re all “WTF? Are you DEAD?”
And then they come back with this lame-o “Sorry… life so busy” post. What-ev.
So I won’t do that.
Yes, I am busy. But duh-fucking-huh, right? I have a two-year-old, and a house, and a husband, and a part-time job. But plenty of work-at-home parents make the time to do things like blog and exercise and even shower (or so I hear).
Problem is I haven’t been much able to do any of that. Problem is I’ve spent the last two months or so having to kick my own ass just to get the hell out of bed and be a semi-decent parent. And when I wasn’t trying to talk my racing brain into getting its proverbial shit together, I was beating myself up for all I haven’t done well or done at all.
Yep. Depression. Blah, blah, blah, lather, rinse, repeat.
Without going into details, let me just say that I was cosmically destined to be under the care of a psychiatric professional someday. I was born to two people with all sorts of whack-a-do birds hanging out in their family trees. Add to that my own issues and well… yeah… my parents should have been saving for SSRI’s, not college.
But I am in capable professional care and I’m blessed with amazingly supportive people all around me. This week, I’ve felt more like myself, my old self, than I have in a few months. And I think that’s enough said on that topic. So many bloggers (Mommy & otherwise) have addressed this topic more eloquently and descriptively than I ever could.
So let’s talk about this mothering business, shall we?
Specifically, let’s talk about how insanely awesome my kid is turning out. And no, this is not one of those posts where I tell you about how she never cries and always minds and is reading Camus in preparation for her interview with Little Geniuses Preschool Academy for Future Anxiety-Addled Adults.
My kid? Well, she’s a one-woman wrecking crew- a veritable tornado of activity with incredible comedic timing who sings and dances her way through the day leaving a trail of toys, crayons, and Cheddar Bunny crumbs in her wake. She is always a mess, frequently naked, and sometimes more than just a little defiant.
And she is perfect.
Don’t get me wrong- my kid is not badly behaved. I will sure as fire correct her for any of that crap. But I think a lot of parents are quick to correct and worry about the wrong stuff. Clothes wash, kids can be bathed, and a little clutter never killed anyone. I have tried to be the mother who lets my kid explore and who isn’t constantly barking for her to be quiet or clean. My child is incredibly spirited, very independent, and relatively fearless. My policy has been this: if she won’t break anything important, harm herself, harm someone else, or be rude… well, game on. I do not want the child who sits quietly in a perfectly-pressed outfit and will not try to grab that shiny thing that looks tempting. Because those kids grow up to be the adults who sit quietly and never take the big risks that make life really interesting. They never question, never jump, never fall, and live (sometimes angrily, sometimes thoughtlessly) in a beige world.
Not my baby.
It sure as hell ain’t anarchy in the pre-K at my house, though. My child has boundaries. I expect her to be polite. I put her in time-out when she disobeys me. She has bedtimes and routines and expectations. We teach patience, we teach kindness, we teach respect.
But if you show up to my house and my little Wild Woman of Borneo is naked save for the fingerpaints she applied to her body and she’s doing laps of the downstairs singing the song she made up about Daddy and a frog and the golf ball place… well, that’s par for the course at our house. Because someday all these wild women antics will (hopefully) translate to an adult woman who knows which of the 10,000 rules and constraints the world tries to put on her are important and which ones are bullshit. And she will have nurtured the freedom and the spirit to call the bullshit.
From Margaret Thatcher Ulrich:
“Well-behaved women rarely make history.”
Right on, Chick.

Just another evening at our house...

2009-11-08T16:05:00.000-08:00

Husband: "Look Vivi, it's a full hour of Dora!!"

Me: "Is it Dora and the Crystal Kingdom?"

Husband: "uh... I don't know... it looks like Dora is running around with Ron Jeremy..."

Me: "Is Ron Jeremy wearing a crown?"

Husband: "Yeah."

Me: "Yep, that's Dora and the Crystal Kindom."

Husband: "Uh...King Ron is carrying around what appears to be a ... um... you know"

Me: "Yeah- that's his scepter... as it were..."

Husband: "So it's not a studded you-know-what?"

Me: "No, not so much."

Halloween Picture Bonanza!

2009-11-06T15:09:00.000-08:00

And now... because everyone is the house is sick and I barely have the brainpower to keep myself from drooling... gratuitous Halloween photos.

Completely Frivolous & Sacrilegious Fluff

2009-10-05T07:08:00.001-07:00

Husband and I have come up with some alternative names for the swine flu:
Pancetta Pandemic
Pork Plague
Bacon Bubonic
and my favorite...
Fatback Fever

And from last night, this conversation:

Husband: Why are you so mean* to me?
Me: I was sent by the Lord to test you. Jesus told me so. In an Eggo.
Husband: Yeah, well he told me to tell you to knock it off.... an Eggo? Really?
Me: It was all I could come up with.

Mean = telling him to shush so as not to wake the rustling baby with his full-volume description of an ESPN commercial.

Mother of the Year

2009-08-19T12:59:00.001-07:00

You know it's been a banner day when you have to call the Poison Control Center and say "So... my 20-month-old just took a swig of some KY massage oil... what's that gonna do to my day?"
The answer is not much. Maybe a really sludgey diaper later, but no real harm done. Actually, I'm enjoying my child smelling like "Bali Moonlight" as opposed to the usual eau de A&D ointment.
What's really bothering me is that this was my THIRD (yes, third) call to Poison Control since the child got mobile. For the record, Old Spice deodorant and L'Oreal mineral makeup are also both relatively harmless snacks for the tots. Aren't you glad I can provide these handy factoids? *SIGH*

Diary of a Mad Housewife

2009-08-07T09:02:00.001-07:00

The story of my last few weeks is one of hot steamy chaos topped with a heaping melty helping of stress and sprinkled with crunchy annoying complications. A delicious recipe for Mama Meltdown! Mmmm… All that came to a nice hot boiling messy head on the phone with my Mom last week. I cried, she soothed, and then I changed a leaking poopy diaper. Let’s use last Wednesday as an example.
I was in the second hour of time on the phone with a certain wireless carrier that merged with my carrier and proceeded to overcharge me and refuse to answer emails and can’t tell me how to update my Blackberry software and …. The dogs were acting as my defacto childcare, keeping Viv’s harpy-esque, ear-shattering shrieking to the happy kind. Oh, and did I mention I was cleaning the kitchen and answering work emails at the same time? I had just emptied the silverware basket and turned to use the laptop. In that short span… maybe 45 seconds… somehow things went terribly wrong.
When I turned back around, the silverware basket was gone. But I needn’t have wondered about it’s location for long. At that moment, my child and the dogs came thundering through in the 1st Annual Mayhem Parade. My demure little flower of a girl-child was naked from the waist down, having removed both her shorts and diaper. She was brandishing the missing silverware basket over her head like a hockey player making his rounds of the ice with the Stanley Cup. In hot pursuit behind my sweet baby were BOTH dogs, one barking as though she’d treed a ‘coon (as they say around these parts) and the other sporting a box of Annie’s Chocolate Bunnies in his mouth. They roared through, knocking over the trash can and stepping on BOTH my feet as they went.
I followed the wild rumpus crew into the den and it was then that I realized the true extent of the festivities. That box of Bunnies was empty, it turns out, and the bodies were strewn across the den floor like a little bunny Jonestown. Both dogs were now feasting on the carnage. My daughter stood in the middle of it all, pants-less and gleeful, shrieking her excitement to the neighborhood.
And then, then she peed. Down her leg. Onto the carpet. Soggying a couple of errant bunnies beneath her feet.
Fast forward to the end of the week. It was no surprise when my Mom emailed and oh-so-casually mentioned that she didn’t have choir practice this week and they really wanted to see the baby and so, hey, why don’t they cruise on up for a short visit? To which I responded SWEET MONKEYS AND RED WINE, WHY AREN’T YOU IN THE CAR YET????
They arrived Monday and spent the week amusing my daughter, fixing my car, and providing excellent meals. They left this morning. Viv and I both cried.

Absence makes your readership go wander...

2009-04-15T04:30:00.000-07:00

*SIGH*

So where have I been? I wish I had something sexy to report, but no, I do not. Let me put it to you this way...

A few night's ago I dreamed I was doing laundry pretty much all night. I woke up thinking "dammit! Couldn't my subconscious come up with something a little more glamorous?" But it's not my poor subconscious's fault. I mean, it's not like my conscious self has been providing any good raw material. The dancey dance segment of Yo Gabba Gabba is about as hot as the party gets around here these days.

But I do have some exciting news from a life other than my own! One of my old college cronies has co-authored a book! And it got published! Holla! (Do the kids still say "holla"?)

Behold....

Beyond Heaving Bosoms: The Smart Bitches Guide to Romance Novels

Sarah Wendell had the great misfortune of being a total gee- er, I mean, English major with me. The book is awesome, she is awesome, and if you don't buy it, well, woe be unto you is all I'm gonna say. Serious Biblical proportions WOE! (OK... not really... no actual woe...but it is an excellent and funny read.)

Later today (or maybe tomorrow) my thoughtful analysis (read: fragmented rant) on the Sarah Palin vs. Levi Johnston smackdown.

Ciao!

Oh wait... I forgot... your daily dose of adorable.

For Sale...or Trade... Hell, I'll pay YOU.

2009-03-11T05:24:00.000-07:00

Hey there! Yes, you! Step right up for the DEAL OF THE CENTURY!

What's that you say? You're a doctor/sanitation worker/teacher/farmer and you need to get up ridiculously early every morning? Say... 4:30 a.m.? EVERY. DAY.

Have I got a bargain for you!

For a very low price (so low we can't even mention it here) you can have this:

(see... she even handles the paperwork!)

It's the Vivi-matic 3000! Wakes you up persistently and reliably every single morning at 4:30 on the dot! And she comes with these amazing features!

No pesky snooze buttonn to tempt you into oversleeping!

Escalating volume ensures you will eventually awake, no matter how sound a sleeper you are!

Bonus good-morning diaper included on random occasions for extra surprise fun!

Also acts as a weight-loss aid by demanding 1/2 of your breakfast no matter what you put in her bowl!

To order this amazing product, call me. Price negotiable. Free express delivery!

Reports of my death are highly exaggerated...

2009-03-09T09:38:00.000-07:00

Surprise! It's your favorite (ok.... at least not your least favorite) blogger rising from the ashes. There's so much to report. My life has changed so much (for the good!) in the last few months and oh, how my sweet girl has grown. And as soon as the Nap Gods smile upon me, I'll fill you in on it all. But for now, behold the cuteness:

And in the current events realm...
ROCK THE F*** ON, OBAMA!!!!!
http://www.cnn.com/2009/POLITICS/03/09/obama.stem.cells/index.html

Stay tuned...

MORE bodily functions...

2008-12-22T07:53:00.000-08:00

'Cause I have a toddler... so a good 75% of my life revolves around bodily functions and sadly, not even my own.

Yesterday Vivi got quiet. And the #1 rule of parenting is: when it gets quiet, you should investigate. I ducked my head back into the den to see my sweet angelic baby girl squatting on the floor with a Baby Einstein book laid out in front of her. She was studying the book intently, smiling at the illustrations, and even occasionally turning the page. The English-major-geek in me went positively gooey...

"Look!" I gasped to Husband "She's READING A BOOK! That's so freakin' cute! Look at her face-... wait... is she?"

Yep. Baby Girl was red in the face and grunting. Apparently the instinct to peruse a little light reading material while taking your constitutional kicks in quite early.

In this respect, she is truly her grandfathers' (both of them) granddaughter. They've both been kidded endlessly about their trips to the "library" each morning. I had hoped perhaps my delicate Southern flower of a daughter might be a tad more ladylike and discreet.
No dice.
*SIGH*

But here- some cuteness! Husband was trying to take a nap on the couch. I was trying to change my daughter's clothes. Vivi had other ideas for all of us.

"Dada...are you in here???"

"Share the couch, man!"

Bodily Functions Abound... AGAIN!

2008-12-11T10:20:00.000-08:00

To quote my friend Wubbzy, Wow! Wow! That really is the only way to convey what’s happened in the last few weeks. Let’s have some Reader’s Digest versions of events, shall we?

Thanksgiving: Miraculously easy drive down and first few days. And on the last day, baby devolved into a demon, conditions for the drive home were deplorable, and both parents came down with a stomach flu from the very most horrible depths of hell whilst still on the road. A big ol’ shout-out of thanks to my Grandma Bird for putting the baby’s Christmas stocking in that jumbo Ziploc storage bag. That baggie came in miiiighty handy round about the GA/SC state line when I had to finally admit that I was NOT just carsick and would NOT be ok if I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths.

Job News: Mama’s getting laid off. January 31st. My thoughts? Does this suck? Yep. Does it suck worse than waking up in Darfur and fearing for my family’s very survival every minute of the day? No farking way. See my point? You know I’m a big fan of perspective and so I say to you that this, my friends, is just a job. I’ll find another one.

Sleeping: I stuck to my guns and refused to the do the cry-it-out thing while Viv was very small. I still believe that was the right decision. But a few weeks ago, Mama reached a breaking point… a huge, ugly, weepy, full-of-semi-disturbing-thoughts breaking point. And in consultation with a psychiatric professional (and my sister…whom I consider my own personal amateur shrink), I came to the life-altering realization that my kid was working the system. Big time. At a year, she was not waking up and hollering for me out of some unmet need, she was just used to getting her way and would prefer to have ME put her back to sleep rather than settling herself. It took precisely three nights to bring Viv around to the new regime. There was some crying (amazingly none from me.). There were turns taken in going in to reassure her she had not been abandoned to be raised by wolves. Then, suddenly, there were whispered conversations like this:
“….wait…. is she… ASLEEP?”
“shut UP! You’re going to jinx it!”
“…no, really…listen…NOTHING…”
“oh my God… that was too fast, too easy…”
“I know… I have to pee, but…”
“hold it… the bathroom floor is creaky…”
“seriously… we have to shut UP…”
“so, since she’s asleep…*rustle, rustle*.”
“are you kidding me?! this bed is creaky too!”
“I’ll go close the door…”
“No! Nobody moves! Nobody talks! Nobody breathes! Nobody pees! Nobody has sex! NOBODY RUINS THIS SLEEPING THING WITH TRIVIAL BIOLOGICAL NEEDS!”

What’s that? Didn’t my child just have a very important birthday? Why yes, yes she did! And since YOU brought it up, it won’t be obnoxious mommy bragging on my part to force on yo- er, I mean.. show you these adorable pictures!

An Entire Post about Pee

2008-12-03T17:42:00.000-08:00

OK, so the entire post isn't exactly about pee itself... but there's a definite urological theme here. Stick with me, folks! I promise this story gets better!

Item #1: Middle Sister is getting her kidney transplant January 6th!! Woo hoo!!!! My cousin is a match and all systems are go. (Get it? Systems? Go? Kidneys? Urinary tract-themed entry? No? Fine. Be that way.)

Item #2: It happened again the other night. I was JUST at the bathroom door with moisturizer and floss in hand ready to get ready for be- GAH! The door. Shutting. Husband had to pee. When he emerged, I made this observation:
"Four years of marriage and watching me push two babies out of my vagina and you STILL can't pee in front of me?"
Now, I know what you're saying... lots of women would probably KILL for their husbands to shut the door and run the water when they pee. Don't get me wrong, I am all about keeping some mystery in your marriage. Husband and I don't pass gas in each other's company and we certainly don't even DISCUSS what else goes on behind that closed bathroom door. That's private time.
But peeing? I grew up in a house with three sisters. If you didn't pee with an audience, you'd have to wet your pants because there was no way you were getting the one bathroom to yourself for something so trivial as urinating. So I admit that I am probably a little fast and loose with my pee privacy. And I realize that Husband grew up with an opposite-sex sibling, meaning the game was a bit different for him.
Childhood bathroom wars aside, I pointed out to Husband that since he HAD seen me birth two children and the subsequent aftermath, continuing to so fiercely guard against me seeing him pee just seems like a very selfish and unfair advantage in the dignity department. To which he replied "So THAT'S what this is all about..." Damn skippy! Well, ok, so not. That's only part of it.
Not to go all Oprah-relationship-expert-special on you, but don't you think that a man who truly trusts his wife, who is secure in his marriage, who is willing to expose his most vulnerable and not always perfect emotional self to her would also be willing to expose... uh... other things at vulnerable and not-so-great moments? I mean, really... this not peeing in front of me could be indicative of much bigger issues. It's a wonder we've managed to stay married this long with such a raw festering emotional wound between us.
I conveyed these theories to Husband. He was unmoved. In fact, all he said was this:
"I smell blog entry."
Smartass.

It's a difficult time for us all...

2008-11-19T08:44:00.000-08:00

*On my return to bed after a particularly grueling baby wake-up.*

Husband: Is she ok?

Me: Yeah, she’s back to sleep...finally.

Husband: What got her up and so hard to put back down?

Me: Dunno. Might have been some heartburn/reflux issues, though… ‘cause I finally gave her ½ a teaspoon Maalox in desperation and now she’s sleeping nicely.

Husband: What could have given her heartburn???

Me: State of the economy.

Husband: Good point.

Me: *sleepily* ‘Night

Husband: ‘Night.

We got the tricks.

2008-11-03T10:04:00.000-08:00

Suffice to say that Vivi was NOT impressed with Halloween.

But damn, did she look cute...

And then there was Husband... confirming that I am, indeed, the luckiest damn woman on the planet. He's hot AND he volunteers to carry the angry near-toddler. THAT, my friends, is a mighty fine man.

Some Friendly Campaign Advice

2008-10-21T13:14:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite people in the whole entire world who also happens to work for a queer issues non-profit sent this to me. It made my whole day. Enjoy!

Dear John McCain:
I am writing because it appears you may have, what we call in the non-profit community, a "crazies" problem. In our non-profit work, especially work that may be issue specific, we often have "crazies" who pop up around our service areas. Let me give you a few examples:

We have a member in smaller part of our state who likes to send long ranting e-mails to our Executive Director about how, as a doctor, he believes the "Transgenders" are all power-hungry, sick-o men in lipstick. What this man fails to mention in his ranting e-mails is that he had his license revoked by the American Medical Association for inappropriate conduct. However, this "doctor" is NOT shy about telling me, in front of his teenage daughter, that said teenage daughter is mentally ill and her wicked mother forced her to take the stand and testify against him in a court case. This man, Senator McCain, is a crazy.
We have a young man member in a suburb of a major city where a conservative, evangelical mega-church is also located. Recently this young man called me to tell me that he was planning a direct action in an attempt to get the mega-church leadership and membership to "engage in dialog about the homophobia preached from their pulpit." I asked said young man what exactly the preachers have said. Said Young Man responded that he has never attended services at this church, but he just knows they preach hate. I asked Said Young Man what action he was planning to encourage dialog. Said Young Man replied, "Well, we are going to dress all in black and lie down on their sidewalk and entry walkways with signs saying they are homophobic and preaching hate which causes people to die. We are going to block them from entering the church. I know this might get a few people arrested, but we really want to open dialog between gay people and this church." Though his crazy may be slightly mitigated by his youthful zeal, Said Young Man is a crazy.

So, you may be asking yourself, my friend, what do The Homosexual Agenda Crazies have to do with the Straight Talk Express Campaign for Mavericks and Pitt-Bulls with Lipstick for the White House? Well, Senator McCain, this has to do with leadership. There are times to ignore the crazies, such as when they send crazy e-mails to your Executive Director. Then, my friend, there are time when you must reign in your crazies. I spoke at length with Said Young Man, trying to help him to understand that a hostile action preventing folks from worshiping as they choose is perhaps not the best way to open dialog. Perhaps Said Young Man would encourage a more productive response by say, sending a letter to the lead pastor asking for a meeting or inviting the congregation to a ecumenical worship service with the Unitarian Universalists or maybe even inviting the congregants to a picnic full of queers following their Sunday morning services.

This is where you come in, my friend Senator McCain. Joe the Plumber, while an unregistered voter, an unlicensed plumber, and an ower of back taxes may NOT be a crazy, your supporters who have smashed car windows, heckled black voters, and left dead bear cubs on college campuses are your crazies. No, perhaps you did not directly incite the crazies, but, none the less, my friend, they are your crazies, and they are looking to you for leadership. How about spending some of that big Republican stock market windfall profi-..... er... some of the public funds you took to run an "honest, American campa-"..wait..... um... some money to buy a few ads. I suggest the ads include the following:

"My friends, my fellow Americans, my crazies. I am your leader. And, as your leader, I am telling you to get your happy asses in line. We are Americans. We are trying to take back the White House from those liberal agenda social- no... from the deregulating Bush Admin-... for Main Street! Yeah, for Main Street! And standing on the corner of Main Street with pictures of dead fetuses and monkeys in turbans, yellin' at voters like there were life-hating women entering an abortion mill in the late 1990s is NOT an effective means to help me win this election. I am John McCain, and I approve this message, and I suggest you hot-mess crazies go get some therapizing."

Sincerely,

A Concerned Community Organizer

At least he didn't say "you betcha...."

2008-10-07T10:17:00.000-07:00

A dear old college friend of mine works as a Development Manager for a non-profit in Washington, DC. This is a professional woman, with an MA under her belt and an extremely poised and articulate demeanor. There is absolutely nothing about her or her position that would suggest she is not the sort of woman to be taken seriously. She is, however, very very petite and looks damn near a decade or two younger than she actually is and she's not even 30 yet. But if you speak to her for five seconds, you'd know that her impish youthful looks are obviously in contrast with the "content of her character" so to speak.
Aaalll that being said, let me tell you about her day today. She participated in an interview team. They were interviewing a candidate for a Vice-President position... senior level management. The sort of position in which ... oh... say... a minimum standard of professional conduct and non-HR-problem behavior could be expected. Right.
At the end of the interview, the candidate shook everyone's hands. And while he was shaking my friend's hand... GAVE HER A BIG OL' WINK.
Seriously? You WINK at a person INTERVIEWING YOU FOR A JOB? And a WOMAN interviewing your male ass for a job? UGH! I can just hear the inner dialogue. "Awww... hey there, little lady... see how endearing and charming I am? Don't ya just wanna give me a job? I know you gals love a little flirt on the way out! Gets to ya every time!"
I blame Sarah Palin. With one debate she has single-handedly turned a completely inappropriate sickeningly cutesy gesture into something people think constitutes charm.
Bleck.

Some Southern Charm about the VP Debate

2008-10-06T12:06:00.000-07:00

All right... this Palin shit has gotten out of hand!

Bad enough she's inexperienced, smug, deceitful, and arrogant.
Bad enough she can't name a single Supreme Court case other than Roe v. Wade
Bad enough she thinks $5K a year in tax credits will cover our health care.
Bad enough this woman keeps calling herself a feminist when she's actually the anti-Christ of the women's movement.

NOW she has CROSSED THE LINE!

Someone who has lived her whole life in FREAKIN' ALASKA has NO RIGHT saying "bless their hearts"!

Bitch probably orders unsweetened tea, too.

Hello? Anyone home?

2008-10-02T07:11:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the down time. Vivi hasn't beeen sleeping well. OK, so that's an understatement. My child is obviously an operative for the CIA because I don't know where else she could have learned to use sleep deprivation tactics so effectively. She's been up almost every hour every night for the last two weeks. I am a walking experiment in human endurance. Take THAT, David Blaine, you candy-ass mofo!

But here... have something funny and politically relevant. It will help to pass the time and it also makes you look less nuts for sitting at your desk laughing to yourself. (You know... if you needed that kind of help... not that anyone I know does... right.)

http://www.236.com/news/2008/10/01/debate_training_biden_learns_w_1_9211.php

The problem, you see, is color....

2008-09-19T12:27:00.000-07:00

In several recent letters to the editor of our local paper, it has been noted (as it has in many places, I'm sure) that this election would look VERY different if the Obamas were white and Palin and her family were people of color. It's sickeningly blatant, the racial bias in it all. . . and I think the following little piece puts it all in perspective in a way I can't. Mad crazy props (as the kids would say) to my baby sister, Sarah, for sending this to me.

This is Your Nation on White Privilege
By Tim Wise9/13/08

For those who still can't grasp the concept of white privilege, or who are looking for some easy-to-understand examples of it, perhaps this list will help.
White privilege is when you can get pregnant at seventeen like Bristol Palin and everyone is quick to insist that your life and that of your family is a personal matter, and that no one has a right to judge you or your parents, because "every family has challenges," even as black and Latino families with similar "challenges" are regularly typified as irresponsible, pathological and arbiters of social decay.
White privilege is when you can call yourself a "f*ckin' redneck," like Bristol Palin's boyfriend does, and talk about how if anyone messes with you, you'll "kick their f*ckin' ass," and talk about how you like to "shoot sh*t" for fun, and still be viewed as a responsible, all-American boy (and a great son-in-law to be) rather than a thug.
White privilege is when you can attend four different colleges in six years like Sarah Palin did (one of which you basically failed out of, then returned to after making up some coursework at a community college), and no one questions your intelligence or commitment to achievement, whereas a person of color who did this would be viewed as unfit for college, and probably someone who only got in in the first place because of affirmative action.
White privilege is when you can claim that being mayor of a town smaller than most medium-sized colleges, and then Governor of a state with about the same number of people as the lower fifth of the island of Manhattan, makes you ready to potentially be president, and people don't all piss on themselves with laughter, while being a black U.S. Senator, two-term state Senator, and constitutional law scholar, means you're "untested."
White privilege is being able to say that you support the words "under God" in the pledge of allegiance because "if it was good enough for the founding fathers, it's good enough for me," and not be immediately disqualified from holding office--since, after all, the pledge was written in the late 1800s and the "under God" part wasn't added until the 1950s--while believing that reading accused criminals and terrorists their rights (because, ya know, the Constitution, which you used to teach at a prestigious law school, requires it), is a dangerous and silly idea only supported by mushy liberals.
White privilege is being able to be a gun enthusiast and not make people immediately scared of you.
White privilege is being able to have a husband who was a member of an extremist political party that wants your state to secede from the Union, and whose motto is "Alaska first," and no one questions your patriotism or that of your family, while if you're black and your spouse merely fails to come to a 9/11 memorial so she can be home with her kids on the first day of school, people immediately think she's being disrespectful.
White privilege is being able to make fun of community organizers and the work they do--like, among other things, fight for the right of women to vote, or for civil rights, or the 8-hour workday, or an end to child labor--and people think you're being pithy and tough, but if you merely question the experience of a small town mayor and 18-month governor with no foreign-policy expertise beyond a class she took in college and the fact that she lives close to Russia--you're somehow being mean, or even sexist.
White privilege is being able to convince white women who don't even agree with you on any substantive issue to vote for you and your running mate anyway, because suddenly your presence on the ticket has inspired confidence in these same white women, and made them give your party a "second look."
White privilege is being able to fire people who didn't support your political campaigns and not be accused of abusing your power or being a typical politician who engages in favoritism, while being black and merely knowing some folks from the old-line political machines in Chicago means you must be corrupt.
White privilege is when you can take nearly twenty-four hours to get to a hospital after beginning to leak amniotic fluid, and still be viewed as a great mom whose commitment to her children is unquestionable, and whose "next door neighbor" qualities make her ready to be VP, while if you're a black candidate for president and you let your children be interviewed for a few seconds on TV, you're irresponsibly exploiting them.
White privilege is being able to give a 36 minute speech in which you talk about lipstick and make fun of your opponent, while laying out no substantive policy positions on any issue at all, and still manage to be considered a legitimate candidate, while a black person who gives an hour speech the week before, in which he lays out specific policy proposals on several issues, is still criticized for being too vague about what he would do if elected.
White privilege is being able to attend churches over the years whose pastors say that people who voted for John Kerry or merely criticize George W. Bush are going to hell, and that the U.S. is an explicitly Christian nation and the job of Christians is to bring Christian theological principles into government, and who bring in speakers who say the conflict in the Middle East is God's punishment on Jews for rejecting Jesus, and everyone can still think you're just a good church-going Christian, but if you're black and friends with a black pastor who has noted (as have Colin Powell and the U.S. Department of Defense) that terrorist attacks are often the result of U.S. foreign policy and who talks about the history of racism and its effect on black people, you're an extremist who probably hates America.
White privilege is not knowing what the Bush Doctrine is when asked by a reporter, and then people get angry at the reporter for asking you such a "trick question," while being black and merely refusing to give one-word answers to the queries of Bill O'Reilly means you're dodging the question, or trying to seem overly intellectual and nuanced.
White privilege is being able to go to a prestigious prep school, then to Yale and then Harvard Business school, and yet, still be seen as just an average guy (George W. Bush) while being black, going to a prestigious prep school, then Occidental College, then Columbia, and then to Harvard Law, makes you "uppity," and a snob who probably looks down on regular folks.
White privilege is being able to graduate near the bottom of your college class (McCain), or graduate with a C average from Yale (W.) and that's OK, and you're cut out to be president, but if you're black and you graduate near the top of your class from Harvard Law, you can't be trusted to make good decisions in office.
White privilege is being able to dump your first wife after she's disfigured in a car crash so you can take up with a multi-millionaire beauty queen (who you go on to call the c-word in public) and still be thought of as a man of strong family values, while if you're black and married for nearly twenty years to the same woman, your family is viewed as un-American and your gestures of affection for each other are called "terrorist fist bumps."
White privilege is being able to sing a song about bombing Iran and still be viewed as a sober and rational statesman, with the maturity to be president, while being black and suggesting that the U.S. should speak with other nations, even when we have disagreements with them, makes you "dangerously naive and immature."
White privilege is being able to claim your experience as a POW has anything at all to do with your fitness for president, while being black and experiencing racism and an absent father is apparently among the "lesser adversities" faced by other politicians, as Sarah Palin explained in her convention speech.
And finally, white privilege is the only thing that could possibly allow someone to become president when he has voted with George W. Bush 90 percent of the time, even as unemployment is skyrocketing, people are losing their homes, inflation is rising, and the U.S. is increasingly isolated from world opinion, just because white voters aren't sure about that whole "change" thing. Ya know, it's just too vague and ill-defined, unlike, say, four more years of the same, which is very concrete and certain.White privilege is, in short, the problem.

UPDATE:
While copying and pasting this post to correct a typo, I accidentally deleted the whole post. These were the comments that appeared before I got stuck on stupid. :)

Erin and Rick said...
Every single 'fact' spun in this article can be 'factually' spun in the complete opposite direction. At the end of the day, it's ALL a matter of opinion & interpretation. They are ALL liars, cheats, frauds, and puppets. Including Mr. Obama.
9:17 AM

Erin and Rick said...
Also- I really don't know where the 'skyrocketing unemployment' comments keep coing from. This is straight from the Bureau of Labor & Statistics website. It's done nothing but drop since 2002. Tee hee!http://data.bls.gov/PDQ/servlet/SurveyOutputServlet?data_tool=latest_numbers&series_id=LNU04000000&years_option=all_years&periods_option=specific_periods&periods=Annual+Data
9:53 AM
Lady Liberal said...
First, let's look at more recent unemployment data. Go here:
http://www.bls.gov/web/cpseea1.pdf

Look at the month by month figures since August 2007- steady rise from 4.7 to 6.1. Keep in mind that economic downturns are not usually over night phenomneon. The current policies and problems take a few years to show solid effects on the economy- hence, our "sudden" peril.Second- that's exactly the point of the article- interpretation. I think what you're taking issue with isn't the facts of the article, those are pretty solid. Palin and Obama's collegiate records, her experience, his experience, his family status, and her family events are all recorded accurately. I think that you're taking issue with (and absolutely correctly) is the "spin" as you called it- the interpretation of those facts, the language used to describe and deconstruct them. And that's exactly the point of the article. The conservatives are NOT applying the same interpretation to the experiences of Palin and Obama. Universally as a country, we don't typically apply the same interpretations- institutional racism colors those interpretations.LOL- now I have that song from Avenue Q playing in my head... "Everyone's a little bit racist..." Myself included. :)
10:45 AM

Lady Liberal said...
Let me add...I'm aware that there are extremists on both sides. And I'm aware that extreme left-wingers are not innocent of "interpretations" of their own. That's certainly true. I agree wholeheartedly with the conservatives that Palin's daughter's pregnancy is a private family affair (a point Obama made himself, btw) and should absolutely in no way EVER be used against her mother. All kids make mistakes. The point of this article is that systemically, as a nation, we view experiences both good and bad differently in cases where race is a factor. We tolerate and excuse things from "nice" (read: white) families that are symptoms of low-class destruction of society in others.We do the same thing with gender. We do the same thing with socioeconomic status. We do the same thing with ethnicity. It's the whole privilege and prejudice argument.
11:10 AM

Sorry Mom- I say fuck a lot in this one...

2008-09-05T09:36:00.000-07:00

Dearest Republicans:
Watched parts of your convention- loved the gratuitious shots of Palin’s uber cute littlest daughter. ‘Cause you know…she has lots to do with Palin’s fitness to govern.

But seriously, I can’t decide whether to go with fury or awe.
One one hand, I’m furious. I’m furious and insulted that you put this party-line-robot in lip liner on your ticket and don’t even bother to veil the fact that you’re positively pandering to the “woman vote”. This woman voter finds it disgusting since the woman you chose supports policies that are so inherently anti-woman and anti-family, she might as well be… oh, yeah, W! So she has a vagina from whence came five kids. All that tells me is that she’s at least open to pretending to be heterosexual and she’s not barren. It doesn’t mean she cares about me or what my family needs and it damn sure doesn’t mean she’s good for this country. Her absolute and complete lack of federal level experience, much less global awareness is appalling. Her devotion to a party that has continually disenfranchised her gender and children like her youngest son is repulsive. Her anti-choice pro-death penalty platform is hypocritical. Her stated policies and her record are so far right-wing-fuck-the-environment-and-working-poor-get-more-money-in-rich-people's-pockets-and-you-better-be-holy-white-Christians, she's making me wish Falwell was still alive to be on the ticket. She is not a thinking woman’s woman. And it’s positively insulting that you pass her off as such.

I’m also in awe- at the sheer chutzpah it took to nominate her. And the absolute Orwellian mind control it must take to have party members INSISTING that her experience as mayor of a tiny city and short time as governor of a far-flung-sparsely-populated state can compare with, nay, is BETTER than a man with state and federal level senatorial experience, an education in constitutional law, and extensive hands-on exposure to global issues. Never mind your gal only left the country for the first time last year, she’s ready for tea with Putin! Never mind she’s made questionable use of her power, gobbled up extensive federal resources for the aforementioned sparsely populated state, and doesn't want anyone talking about condoms. No, she’s the kind of big ideas thinker who can handle the complexities of governing what is (at least for now) still the most powerful country on earth. Good God… the vehement way your supporters cling to her despite all logic and reason… not since Charles Manson have we seen this kind of mind fuck.

But what gets me most of all, RNC, is your presentation of her as a family and family values candidate. To put it politely, fuck that shit. The woman had a special needs child, returned to office THREE DAYS LATER and then proceeded to drag a near-newborn out on the campaign trail. For either mom OR dad to do so, that ain’t good parenting. And how about poor Bristol? Being a pregnant teenager is hard enough, but she's going to accept this nomination and let the poor girl live out that struggle under national media scrutiny? And she's encouraging her to marry the baby’s father- Mom would like her to make TWO mistakes? For appearances? For her career? Those are not my kind of family values, lady. But what should I expect from someone campaigning along side a man who lets his wife raise children alone while he pursues his career thousands of miles away and doesn’t even return to care for her personally after a stroke. Don’t cry family values to me while your candidates mistreat their own families and crush funding for programs that would help families without your privilege and resources.

Seriously. Fury and awe.
Fuck off.
A Raging Liberal Pissed Off Mama Just Waiting for November

P.S.- Big apologies to Mom for extensive use of the word fuck. Sorry, Ma. Situation warranted it. See? Family values!

Genius Child

2008-09-05T07:43:00.000-07:00

We haven’t baby-proofed our house much, trying instead to teach Vivi boundaries and to let her explore any place it’s relatively safe. When she crawled towards something off limits, we’d both taken to saying “Vivi… noooooo”. It seemed she understood, because she would stop and change course, leaving the forbidden fireplace/cat/shoes/chainsaw alone. Husband and I applauded her (and ourselves) for reaching the developmental milestone “understands the word no” quite a bit ahead of schedule. Such a smart and obedient baby, we said! And (silently to ourselves) such superior parenting!

Children have a way of teaching you humility.

Vivi still understands no. But apparently free will has entered into the equation. Case in point:

Vivi crawls towards shoes.
Mommy: “Vivi…noooooo.”
Vivi: (stops, thinks, parrots back) “Nooooo…..” *big grin*
Vivi places SHOE IN HER MOUTH.

I’ve been all over BabyCenter and I can’t seem to find which month includes the developmental milestone “flips Mommy the metaphorical bird”.

I’m certain my child is way ahead of schedule on this one, too.

A Very Educational Post

2008-08-27T13:23:00.000-07:00

Dearest Blogites… I have an awful confession to make. I fear many of you will think less of me afterwards, but this ugly secret is weighing so heavily on my heart that I have no choice except to let it out into the light of the Intraweb. *SIGH* Here goes…
I love the hell out of some Dancing with the Stars.
There. I said it.
I am NOT a reality television fan. I hate most of it- Survivor, Big Brother, blah, blah, blah…soul-sucking mindless drivel that caters to the very worst and least intelligent parts of us. But C and D list celebrities ballroom dancing? That’s just good clean fun, folks.
The latest DWTS cast was announced today. My take? *YAWN* I found myself repeatedly saying “who??” and “where is my vodka tonic?” But I did a little research (for you guys, of course) so that I could offer this highly educat- wait. … no… um… reasonably conscious guide to the cast. So without further ado… (Was all that before this “ado”? What is ado? Anybody?? Beuller? Beuller? )

Lauren’s Guide to the Newest Cast of Dancing with the Stars:

Susan Lucci- They’re calling Lucci a “Daytime Television Icon”, but I prefer to think of her as the patron saint of the mercy fuck. After approximately 114 years on Days of our Hospital’s Restless Lives Turning and as many nominations, Lucci finally won a daytime Emmy. Word on the street is that they had to give it to her or all the housewives in New Jersey would simultaneously start up their SUVs effectively suffocating the entire state and portions of New York as well. (Wait… we wanted to AVOID that? Vermont’s been trying to come up with a plan like that for years…)

Toni Braxton- An R&B singer and Babyface Edmonds protégé, Toni joins the cast fresh off her latest album called… um… er… well, I’m sure she’s still singing someplace- she must own a shower. No, actually, she’s headlining in Vegas these days which is like a shower… a very infrequently cleaned shower. Interesting Toni Tidbits: she was the first black woman to play a Disney character lead on Broadway (Belle) and she’s currently suing the shit-all-hell out of her former manager. Walt would be proud.

Lance Bass- Baby-faced Lance is a former member of the boy band N’Sync. In the great tradition of baby-faced-boy-band-members, he recently came out of the closet. With that revelation, he also taught millions of adolescent girls the very important life lesson called “Preventing Heartbreak Through Gaydar.”

Cloris Leachman- All together now… “WHO?” You may remember Cloris Leachman from roles such as the gently-wise-but-booze-soaked grandma in the movie Spanglish. Notable about her participation is the fact that she’s 82 years old, which makes her the second oldest participant right behind Susan Lucci at 135.

Kim Kardashian- Kim is famous for… uh… let’s see… no discernable talent… not that smart… no real contributions to society… OH! Yeah! Her butt is GINORMOUS. And she’s dating Reggie Bush, who I’m told plays the foozeball. I have to give the producers props for casting her, though. I mean, how else are Sir Mix-a-Lot and 69 Boyz ever going to earn any royalties?

Ted McGinley- No, really. He’s actually a celebrity. I thought they’d given an extra slot to some guy from Accounting, too. But aside from a lead role on an obscure sitcom (Hope & Faith), our friend Ted seems to be the faceless everyman. He’s been in a ton of stuff, just go look at IMDB. But you’d pass right by him on the street with only faint recognition (“Doesn’t that guy work in Accounting…”) Suffice to say when you see him you’ll go “oooooh, THAT guy” but I don’t think he’s had to learn evasive driving techniques to lose the paparazzi.

Brooke Burke- Brooke is a former (or current- not sure- don’t care) E! personality (and I use that term loosely) who has approximately 12 kids by like 17 different daddies. She is best known for being exotically beautiful, if you’re into all that. (Husband, you are not, FYI.) She is also well-hated among actual women for looking as though she has never birthed so much as a big poo, much less multiple kids. Adolescent boys take note- a quick Google image search will return multiple pictures of her boobies.

Warren Sapp- Warren is a former defensive tackle for the Oakland Raiders and has the second highest career total sacks for that position. (Husband just got a little hot for me there… ooo… talk aggressive defense to me, baby…) Ahem. Warren is a BIG BIG BIG man. And unlike Emmitt Smith, he did not play in a position known for intricate footwork. Warren’s participation will probably be somewhat like a grizzly bear trying to roller skate. Drunk. And blindfolded.

Misty May-Treanor- In a testament to the American attention span, Misty May will probably be the best known dancer as she is fresh off Olympic gold in beach volleyball. I’m looking forward to her spiking Len Goodman’s smarmy British head when he gives her one of his notoriously low scores. Oh, and she’s the automatic winner in my book if she uses that buff body to beat the ever-lovin’ crappola out of Brooke Burke.

Maurice Greene- Maurice is an Olympic medal-winning runner. He’s no stranger to reality television, having appeared on Blind Date. He recently retired from running, saying it was because of injuries. But we all know the truth… he’s dating Claudia Jordan aka Case #1 Girl on Deal or No Deal and how on earth would anything he ever did compete with her success?

Rocco DiSpirito- Celebrity chef Rocco can be described in one word: YUMMY. Both the contestant and his cooking. God help us all if we find out he dance, too. I mean… can you imagine the triple threat? A hottie man who cooks AND dances? (Wait… I can imagine that. I married that. Eat your hearts out, bitches.) Anywho, ol’ Rocco will be the eye candy for the thinking women fans of DWTS.

Cody Linley- Unless you are the parent of an adolescent girl (looking at you CCW), you are probably not familiar with Little Lord Linley. I tried my best at deductive reasoning. With a name like “Cody”, probably very young. Clearly not a Jonas brother unless he’s the illegitimate one. Kathie Lee’s kid? No, that would be a Gaffer or a GIF file or what the hell is his name- Gipper.. I finally had to Google the little bastard. Get this- he’s HANNAH MONTANA’S love interest! He’s probably going to regret that role later in a very Mark-Paul Gosselar kind of way a la “Hey… what’s Zach Morris doing on NYPD Blue?”

Jeffrey Ross- Jeffrey is a comedian. But sadly, he lacks some kind of incredibly clever and relevant catchphrase like “git ‘er done” or “you might be a redneck”, so he is not as well known as some of his colleagues. He is apparently an “insult comic” so perhaps that’s why they’ve asked him to roast Bob Saget. I can’t think of much more insulting than that.

So there you have it! The cast of DWTS fully illustrated for you in my always demure and subtle fashion. Next week we’ll talk about who I’d like to see on DWTS. But for now I’ll run along home to my wine. And my child- yeah, her too.

OMG ppl i suck

2008-08-22T10:56:00.000-07:00

My child? She crawls. And claps her hands. And bobs her head to music.
But dear GOD… the CRAWLING. The cat now lives in a constant state of fear. My house looks like we’re preparing for flood waters with everything elevated and such. And I think someone should have told me that children develop the urge to stick little pointer fingers in electrical outlets VERY VERY EARLY.

In non-baby-related news, it has recently come to my attention that I’m the only living person who can’t bear to use text message abbreviations and lingo. I am physically and psychologically incapable of hitting the “send” button on something that only vaguely resembles the English language in written form. I blame college. Pesky college! I earned a BA in English only after living through courses like Advanced Grammar in which Dr. Sadist had us DIAGRAM THE PREAMBLE TO THE CONSTITUTION. It’s clear to me now that I didn’t really need that course to successfully write for a living. The only real purpose could have been to instill in me a phobia of modern linguistic shorthand and a crippling inability to relax where sentence structure is concerned.
But seriously… my text messages? They contain semi-colons where appropriate and capital letters and completely spelled-out words and entirely too much information for what should be an abbreviated form of communication. Let’s look at an example:
A normal human’s text message:
“r u @ work?”
Lauren’s text message:
“Are you at work or at home? If you’re at home, call me, please.”
*SIGH*
I’m well aware that I am unforgivably anal retentive and geeky.

Denial- it ain't just for Egypt.

2008-08-06T08:32:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, my daughter WAVED HELLO AT HER FATHER. And she’s been waving ever since- at me, at the baby in the mirror, at the grocery store clerk, at the pediatrician…..
Of course, I’ve been all *hands over eyes* “LA LA LA!! What? I didn’t see anything? No, I did not see my tiny tiny BABY wave! Silly you, she’s just a little bitty BABY- she can’t do that or sit up all by herself or say haaaaay Dad-dee when her father comes in the room or play peek-a-boo or …. LA LA LA STILL NOT BELIEVING YOU!!”

Self, meet reality.
Reality, self.

*SIGH*
I can’t take it, Blogites. I truly can’t. I swear to you I’d put the kid back in the womb if I could… ok, so maybe not. But I’d surely have stopped the clock around 3 months. At least for a little while. I would certainly not have a twenty-pound eight-month-old with a four word vocabulary who gets up on all fours and rocks in a manner that suggests she might crawl at any second. And I certainly wouldn’t let my kid get so big for her britches that she asks for “nuh-nuh” while simultaneously pulling up my shirt.

I am fragile these days. Sleep deprivation and employment uncertainty will do that to a gal. So you’ll understand why I cannot possibly entertain any thought in which my child grows up and no longer has sweet baby milk breath or neck rolls.

Well, color me shocked!

2008-07-29T07:38:00.000-07:00

Seems UF was once again named, essentially, the country's largest permanent kegger.

What cracks me up about the article is the caption on the photo stating the students are holding "a multi-person drinking apparatus known as a beer bong".

Can't you just imagine some poor young staff writer trying to figure out a reasonably intelligent way of describing a giant drinking cup fashioned from a 5-gallon bucket and duct tape? Even if you're working for CNN, it can't bode well for your career when the words "apparatus" and "beer bong" appear in your copy.

But I'm running with it. From this point hence, my margarita glasses and blender shall be referred to as my "external dual-component tequila delivery system".

Natural Selection

2008-07-25T11:50:00.000-07:00

We have an automatic shower cleaner in the master bath. The other day Husband noticed that on the back of the cleaning solution bottle, it says “NOT A BODY WASH”.
..um…
Took me a few minutes to compose myself after that one because you know… they wouldn’t HAVE to put that warning on there unless….yes, unless some mouth-breather actually washed in the stuff and peeled away several valuable layers of skin.
Look, I have an eight-month-old baby, which any parent will tell you is the equivalent of having a frontal lobotomy. I certainly don’t profess to be the brightest match in the box. Hell, in the last three weeks I have put the cereal away in the freezer, tried to unlock my car doors with a Baby Einstein radio, and worn my shirt inside out to the grocery. Clearly my mental acuity ain’t what it used to be.
But seriously? Seems some things should be relatively obvious.
Another case in point- the Today show had a big expose, the gist of which was this… in summer, stuff on a playground gets really really hot.
Again... um...
Dear readers, raise your hand if you’ve ever singed your derriere on a slide? All of you? Ok, hands down. And now who has ever given themselves a nifty cattle brand by letting their upper thigh bump into the chain on the swing? Everyone again? Gee, go figure… All right, who has ever stepped out onto hot pavement barefoot only to go hopping back to the bench like a meth addict Easter bunny? Wow- EVERY LIVING PERSON WHO HAD AN AMERICAN CHILDHOOD?
So tell me, then, how it is that we now require a full-scale “investigation” and we need cities to do something about the hazards of hot playgrounds? The Today story featured a little boy who had burnt the bottoms of his feet on those recycled rubber squares used as playground padding. Because he was allowed to go barefoot. In the middle of summer. On a CITY PLAYGROUND. Where the hello kitty were his parents? I mean, I’m all for experiential learning, but I’m not sure third degree burns are developmentally appropriate teaching tools.

What's the HCPCS code on a junkache?

2008-07-21T08:43:00.000-07:00

Husband: “GAAAAAAH!!!”
Me: “What? What??”
Husband: “The baby head-butted me in the junk!”
Me: “Oh… is that all.”
Husband: “ALL? It hurts! My junk hurts! I have a junkache! Do they make a medicine for that?”
Me: “Yes, it’s called suck-it-up-ital.”
Husband: “Nice, thanks for your compassion.”
Me: “Seriously? That head came OUT OF MY VAGINA. You want sympathy for a little love tap?”

Viv is also teething, so you can only imagine the context in which I referred to her as the Ambassador of Abstinence. To which Husband shot back:
“I thought that was Pat Robertson…"

The End of an Era

2008-07-18T09:12:00.000-07:00

My father is one of six siblings, three boys and three girls born into an Irish-Catholic family in the tiniest of towns in Ohio. They grew up working-class (very) poor, my grandfather and grandmother getting by as best they could after the Great Depression financially devastated the family. By all the children’s recollections, they had very little, but were a soundly united front. True, they would scrap like all hell amongst each other. But if an outsider dared to go after one of them? Well. That poor bastard would soon find themselves reckoning with the entire fiery brood, don’t you know. They continued as adults to sometimes scrap amongst one another on occasion, but always came together for the good times and the bad to support each other. Family weddings are the stuff of legend- good drink, lots of music, and lots of loud laughter. Odd as it may sound, my grandmother’s funeral is one of my best memories. It was a fitting tribute, in our own twisted way, when the grandkids slipped a cigarette and a beer into the casket with my grandmother. After all, those two things were favorite pastimes of Grandma's- you know, like knitting or something in other families. Now that she was comfortable after years of her body failing her, she’d certainly want a smoke and a drink for the journey. I don’t remember our parents even trying to feign anger. Hell, they’d probably have done it too if they’d thought of it.

Last night, my father lost his brother. Years as a diabetic had sent him into kidney failure some time ago; he’d been on dialysis for a while, ineligible for transplant because of his age and other health problems. Finally, his body simply surrendered. Even the heart of a wild Irish son can only take so much.
Uncle Skip was my favorite of my father’s two brothers when I was growing up. He was always good with the kids- quick with the hugs and songs. He had a great voice. My father’s family is divided into “the singers” and “the hummers”. Daddy and I are in the hummers. Uncle Skip was very much a singer. I remember when I was in high school, my grandmother’s mind was failing as quickly as her body. She needed a family member with her around the clock in the hospital. It was summer and I was out of school, so I volunteered to spend the night. Uncle Skip took me home the next morning and I remember how sweet he was to me on the ride, doing things like going out of his way to make sure I got exactly what I’d like for breakfast. He was clearly relieved and touched that I’d taken that night shift. At the time I hadn’t thought much of it, it was only one night- for family, you do these things. No thought, no question. What I hope he knew is that I learned that lesson partly from watching him, my father, and the other siblings. As Uncle Skip got older and his body failed, he got a tad less patient and perhaps a tiny bit grumpy at times. But everyone knew it was the pain talking. Fortunately, his wife, Aunt Kay, is one of the funniest and kindest women you’ll ever meet. Just before he died, they celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary. I have a feeling he was hanging on for that, God love him.

My father and his siblings are so fortunate, to have been a complete set for so long. Very few big families can say they were all present and accounted for until the youngest is in her sixties. And while I know how lucky they’ve been, I find myself so sad for my father and my remaining aunts and uncles. My cousin pointed out that the longest relationship you have is with your siblings. I can’t help but think that Uncle Skip’s death must feel like the beginning of a different and very unwelcome era in their lives, where they begin to face the inevitability of slowly losing their original family circle.

Tonight, I will celebrate Uncle Skip in fine family tradition- by drinking and telling stories. I will shake off my sadness and raise my glass to a good man whom I am honored to call a relation. And I will raise a glass to my father, and to the rest of that clan full of stubborn, funny as hell, unruly souls with hearts of gold. Mar sin leat, Lawrence Patrick.

Funny Husband Moment #1,225,846,759,356

2008-07-16T09:01:00.000-07:00

Me: I washed our bedsheets. They smelled like sweaty sick chick. And baby butt.

Him: *in a sultry whisper* Let yourself be captivated by a scent inspired by the family bed…sweat… ass…breastmilk… Funky Bedsheet by Calvin Klein…

I love him. So much. Any man who can make me laugh that hard after two days of stomach flu… well, he’s a keeper.

SONNUVABEEYATCH!

2008-07-14T06:30:00.000-07:00

Husband and I worked hard to pick a name for our daughter that we felt was classic and beautiful, that reminded us of a wonderful person in our lives (she’s named for a dear friend), and (this was important) wasn’t tremendously common. We did not pick Madison or Emily or Anna because while those are perfectly lovely names, she would have been one of about 10 in her grade at school with that exact same name. Every time I tell someone her name is Vivian, they say “Oh! That’s so pretty! And you never hear it anymore!” SCORE!
So imagine my distress this weekend when my Mom called me from her vacation in Pennsylvania (she understood the significance) to tell me Angelina Jolie had named her baby Vivienne. Now, I realize the spelling and pronunciation are slightly different. And I certainly don’t begrudge Angelina giving her daughter a name she also thinks is classic and beautiful and pays homage to her recently departed French mother.
But still. DAMMIT.
Because you know that now a bunch of TMZ-addicted-People-magazine-subscribing-Perez-Hilton-heads will start naming their babies some variation of Vivienne. And they’ll klass it up, too, with stripper-esque spellings like Viveaynne. And now every time I tell someone my daughter’s name they’ll make some asinine comment.
“Oh! Like Angelina Jolie’s daughter!”
And I’ll be all like, “No bitches, that kid is named after MINE!”
‘Cause my baby was here first.
So there.

Say it with me now, folks...

2008-07-11T07:31:00.000-07:00

DUH!!!

As dutifully reported in the above article, teen pregnancy rates are UP for the first time since 1991. What's that old saying? An ounce of prevention...?
PREVENTION, folks. Which in this case, translates to CONTRACEPTION. 'Cause you can't cure teen pregnancy. And you sure can't "cure" teenagers of the urge to have sex. And teenagers are not tremendously obedient types...so...

I nearly choked when I read that "Federal health experts said they don't know why the teen pregnancy numbers went up from 2005 to 2006". Blip in the data, my ass! How many low-birthweight unplanned unhealthy babies get born before we stop insisting that antiquated abstinence-only programs are the way to go? Oh, how I miss the Clinton-era health programs... when we had our heads up out of the sand.

Inappropriate, Inc.

2008-07-10T12:49:00.000-07:00

Recent Phone Conversation with a Friend Regarding her GYN Appointment:

Her: Is it wrong of me that I took some pleasure in the fact that, after looking at my business, the nurse says “oh… I need to get a smaller speculum…”

Me: Hell no! I’d be all like “yeah, you do! ‘cause my petite dainty ladylike va-jay-jay needs it!”

Another Conversation (this one with a co-worker about a sad, sad, failing project):

Her: There are just… no words.

Me: And that it is why God gave us cocktails- for when there are no words.

And yet another workplace conversation (actually about a flashlight during a power outage- really, I promise):

Co-worker: Wally’s got the big one!

Wally: That’s not the first time I’ve heard that… heh heh…

Just another day at work… cocktails, big ones, and itty bitty vaginas…

Putting Noggin on Notice

2008-06-25T09:49:00.000-07:00

***HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM! Sorry about being such a pain in the ass for the first 25 years or so! Love you!***

So… thanks to Husband and a cast of about 30 stuffed animal characters (all with their own voices and personas, thank you…) I was able to color my hair Sunday. It’s …um…interesting.
See I bought this color. It’s supposed to be a nice normal golden blonde.
What I got was a little closer to Moe from the Doodlebops. Don’t know Moe? Behold…

Ugh. My first impulse was to buy another box of color and try again. But then I thought to myself “Self… you got yourself into this mess- now for the love of God, call a professional to get you out of it!”

And while we’re on the subject of creepy television programming…scene from this morning:

Me: WHAT! THE! HELL!

Husband: (Running in from bathroom, shaving cream dripping…) What?! What?!

Me: I just turned on Noggin to watch The Upside Down Show. And IT’S NOT ON. It’s stupid-ass Blue’s Clues!

Husband: (Both relieved and annoyed now…) Oh. Well, that sucks. What happened?

Me: I don’t know. And it’s a really old one with Steve in that damn rugby shirt! It’s not even Joe- the new guy who at least had some variety in his wardrobe!

Husband: Well, I know a certain children’s network that will be getting an email from an angry Mama today.

Me: Damn skippy!

TV: “Bow!”

Me: Shut up, Blue!

Vivi: *burp* AAAAYAAAApbbbbtttttt!!!

So I get on the Noggin website and just for grins, I check the schedule. Do you know when Shane and David are on now? 11:00 and 11:30 AT NIGHT.

Here is my email to Noggin:
So... I turned on Noggin this morning to catch my- er, I mean, my daughter's daily dose of Shane and David at 7:00 and 7:30. But horror upon horrors, THEY WEREN'T ON! It was Blue's Clues! And not even new Blue's Clues- crummy old episodes with fashion-impaired Steve!
Our family LOVES LOVES LOVES The Upside Down Show and now our only hope is to DVR it late at night. We would turn on those two crazy Aussies every morning as we got ready for work. Their zany hipster brand of imaginative play spoke to every member of our family. My husband’s version of the Happy Fly Ditty dance is the stuff of family legend. We have taken to asking our daughter to press the “go to sleep” and “eat your peas” buttons on her remote. Heck, we’ve even been able to avoid sweeping for weeks- those aren’t balls of dog hair, they’re Schmuzzies!
Pretty puh-lease with sugar on top! Put Shane and David back in the morning rotation! Blue and Steve are nice enough, I suppose, but they’re putting us back to sleep! Zzzzzz.........
Hugs and smooches,
The Smith-Jones* Family

*So very obviously not our real last names.

Contents of your shopping cart: Husband 1 ea.

2008-06-19T11:12:00.000-07:00

A friend emailed me after my bad gifts entry and said:

“you mention you met Husband while Walter was away, but you don’t say how”

Indeed I did not! So I will share.
The truth is that I “met” Husband in those two weeks only in the most literal sense- meaning I actually laid … eyes, yeah, eyes (that’s what we’re going with) …on his person for the first time.

The bottom line of our love story is this: you really can get anything you want on the Internet! Yes, I met Husband online. Through Yahoo personals, to be exact. His profile was light-hearted enough to indicate he wasn’t taking himself (or Internet dating) too terribly seriously, but disclosed enough to interest me.We traded messages for a few weeks, then emails. He was funny and smart- both prerequisites for me. He respected all my internet-dating precautionary measures, never pushing to meet or asking for naked pictures. (Seriously. That shit happens. A lot.) But there was something more. Despite just coming off an ugly divorce himself, he didn’t seem to have an ounce of bitterness in him. There were never any games or pretense or hedging, just answers to my questions and (as he demonstrated over and over again) careful listening to what I shared. I’d gotten pretty adept at sniffing out scary guy b.s. and I kept looking for it… and yet nothing. Nothing but this engaging funny man who was so easy to talk with, so compelling to me. Something seemed to be brewing.

Then I called him. It was like picking back up with an old friend… an old friend you flirted with a lot. He was every bit as warm and genuine and wonderful as I’d made him out to be in my mind. We kept talking and I became more and more anxious to meet him. Finally, I broke one of those aforementioned precautionary measures by asking him over to my apartment on very short notice. He brought M&Ms and he was the hottest boy I’d ever slept wi- er, I mean met. We never left the apartment that night. Sitting on my little loveseat, talking over some beers, he reached out and started playing with my hair. That simple little gesture wouldn’t ordinarily have caught my breath… but in that context, with that person, it did. The night that followed was amazing, but the details are for his memory and mine. I will just say it was everything good- sweet, intense, and completely devoid of any of the usual awkwardness that goes with a new partner.

That first night, I thought to myself “Self, you better enjoy this. Because you are not the type of woman a guy like this dates long term…” I thought Husband was too good for me. (A lot of days I still do, come to think of it. I joke that this is the longest one-night-stand I’ve ever had.) But within days it was clear we were both in for the long haul. Yes, only days. We met in June of 2004 and were married in October. Yes, of the same year.

Almost four years, two daughters, and a lot of bags of M&Ms later, he is still the hottest boy I’ve ever met OR slept with. And he still makes me laugh. And he is still the kindest and most thoughtful person I’ve ever met. It still takes my breath when he reaches out to play with my hair.

Set your child to stun...

2008-06-16T13:17:00.000-07:00

So… someone should have warned me, I think.
I mean, I heard other parents talk about their babies going through a “stranger phase” wherein they don’t particularly care for people other than parents. I was prepared for that- hell, most people annoy the crappola out of me.
What I was NOT prepared for was my formerly-charming daughter to suddenly react as though everyone except me (and sometimes Daddy) is MADE OF BOILING HOT ACID FROM THE INNERMOST CIRCLE OF HELL!!
Vivi has recently issued a set of rules which (as near as we can tell) read something like this:

I want Mama. And only Mama, dumbass. (We forgot this one momentarily. Won’t do that again.)
If you hand me to almost anyone but Mama, I will scream. Daddy is acceptable, but only if Mama isn’t in my line of vision. If you hand me to Daddy, I will look around for Mama; if I see her, I will scream.
If the pediatrician tries to touch me, even for purposes of my own health and well-being, I will scream.
If my loving and doting grandparents who so graciously provide my parents with sanity-saving free babysitting try to touch me, I will scream*.
*Unless I’m on Mommy’s lap, in which case they will be permitted to touch me in order to play with me until I tire of them.
If I wake up and Mama is not peering over me poised to swoop me up for immediate snuggles, I will scream as though I have been abandoned to be raised by wolves.

Did I mention she screams? A lot? To the point that her father and I have considered returning to Catholicism, if only for the exorcisms? (Seriously- a young priest and an old priest are tough to come by in the deep South. I think you have to be an insider.) I’m sure part of her new disposition can be attributed to teething and we’re doing our best to ease those pains, but girlfriend is going to have to pick up some coping skills ASAP. Mama and Daddy can only drink so much…

As you might imagine, this parasitic relationship with my child has put a SERIOUS kink in my beauty regimen. For instance, I am perilously close to finding out what my real hair color is. And people, so far it ain’t pretty. Think dishwater. From a truck stop. There is a box of #83 Sunflower Blonde sitting on my bathroom counter, but it requires 25 minutes to “develop” which is an insanely luxurious amount of time, the likes of which I have not had to myself since…oh, say… December 6th.
And if I had 25 minutes to let my hair color develop, I could also get rid of what my sister affectionately calls “Jiffy* feet”. (*Jiffy is a FL convenience store… like a 7-Eleven, but less klassy.) My heels are dry and cracked. The bottoms of my feet never quite lose that sexy dirty look, even after a shower. (This is due in large part for my propensity to go barefoot and the fact that mopping requires TWO HANDS. TWO.) My toenail polish looks great- in the spots where it hasn’t chipped off and there are more spots where it has than hasn’t. It got so bad last week that I actually threw a coat of polish OVER the three or four existing half-there layers… but ONLY ON THE FOUR TOES THAT WOULD SHOW IN MY PEEP-TOE WORK SHOES. And I had to drive to work barefoot to let that dry to a tacky consistency. That, my friends, is an “express pedicure".

My only consolation in all this is that I am still able to keep up with shaving. Don’t get any big ideas- it’s not because my showers last longer than 5-7 minutes. It’s just that I’m a fair-skinned used-to-be-blonde with very thin hair. I can let it ride for at least a week, usually two before Husband gets rugburn from a quickie. And speaking of Husband, I should tell you that he has been incredibly wonderful as usual. He’s doing much more than his fair share of the household chores and it breaks his heart when Vivi doesn’t settle down for him. So despite his very best efforts all the way around, poor Husband is left with a fairly dirty house (he’s only one man!), a screaming baby, and a wife looking like a Wal-Mart Queen. It’s a wonder those quickies even happen.

Desperation is a funny thing…

Apparently it's not a merit system...

2008-06-13T12:58:00.001-07:00

How is it that a smart, insightful, legitimate journalist is gone too soon?

And yet pompous egomaniacal piece-of-shit worthless windbags live on and on and on and on...

Lestat said it best "God kills indiscriminately, and so must I."

*SIGH*

Bad Gifts: Redux

2008-06-12T10:33:00.000-07:00

Holy Wrong-Size-Lingerie, Batman! That last post was near-and-dear to many! I’ve gotten several emails from folks telling me tales of gift-giving-gone-awry that make my venus fly traps look like the Hope diamond. And apparently I’m not the only one to have a horrendous gift prompt a sort of revelation about the relationship.
I had to share a few snippets of these stories with certain names, details, and other information deleted to protect the gift receivers. (The givers will get their comeuppance- karma is a beeyatch and whatnot.)

Here are some of my favorite quotes regarding these gifts and the relationship changes they prompted:

“A man who brings PBR to his first dinner with my parents will not have a second dinner with my parents.”

“An IOU coupon for sex should not have an expiration date… and should have clear terms for when it will and will not be honored, especially if the terms are NEVER.”

“Giving my daughter a ton of clothes loses something when you announce to the entire family that you bought them because you know I never do laundry…”

“He gave me a Valentine’s card in Spanish- a language I don’t speak. He thought it was funny. I’m not sure if it was funny because I DON’T SPEAK SPANISH.” *Editor’s note- my dumbass ex did this too- WTF???

And my favorite….

“Enlightenment had come in the form of a 9” hot pink plastic dick.”

Yes, you read that right. I’m still laughing.

And I’ll add a sad gift story to this lot…
Early in our relationship, the ex bought me a long-handled ice scraper. I was touched because he was so thoughtful, you know… realizing I was too short to reach the center of the windshield with a regular ice scraper. For years, I held that ice scraper up in my head and to others as a sign of how the ex as really quite thoughtful, just a practical salt-of-the-Earth (as he liked to call himself) kind of guy.
As our marriage wound down, I realized I didn’t have much, if any, evidence to add to that ice scraper… after almost 9 ½ years. I’d been holding on to that one thing for way longer than it was worth.
Even worse was when I shared that revelation with my Girlfriends and one of them offered up this moment of alcohol-induced honesty:
“He didn’t get you that because he was being thoughtful… if he was REALLY being thoughtful, he would have gotten his pathetic self out there and scraped the windshield himself. He was just making sure you could do it and his lazy ass wouldn’t have to!”

Shit.

Told you I was missing certain skills of deduction.

Ah, young love…

One step below a Chia pet...

2008-06-11T12:18:00.000-07:00

Earlier today, I received a request from my one, er, I mean, one of my readers. She got the idea on another blog site. And since I would never alienate a (the) reader, I will oblige. Keep in mind this requestor already knows the story. She is a girlfriend of mine and got the real-time you’ve-got-to-be-shitting-me phone call. Girlfriend’s request was this:
“You HAVE to tell the story of the worst gift you ever received!”
Okey-dokey, buckle up kids…

I was newly divorced and newly dating. Please to remember that I had been with the ex since I was 18, so there were certain survival skills I was missing. In those precious formative years when my girlfriends were learning how to weed out the self-centered asswipes, I was stubbornly sticking with the same self-centered asswipe to the detriment of my own development.

I’d been seeing this man child we’ll call Walter, after the farting dog. (And this guy would fart. In front of me. BIG mistake.) He could hold his own in a conversation and be snarky about dumb people, so we had some fun. Unfortunately he was also whiny and insanely narcissistic. Case in point: after I had worked a 9-hour day, only to immediately go and teach for three hours that evening, I arrived at his place exhausted. (As a side note- he never wanted to go to my place. Allergic to cats and “didn’t like taking medicine”. What-ev.) I offered to pay for dinner if he would only go and pick up said dinner so that I might have 15 minutes to decompress. Cue the hissy fit about how he didn’t want to do that because he “expected to be spending time with me”. Seriously. Yes. Another case in point: he called to ask me about my favorite restaurant- a nice place, nicer than any place we’d ever been… so he could take his FEMALE FRIEND there because she “needed an excuse to get dressed up and go out”.

At any rate, even despite my deficit, I knew this particular fella wasn’t “the one”. He assumed from the get-go that we were exclusive, but really? Do I need to explain why I didn’t feel like investing the emotional energy in telling him that not only was he not “the one”, he was one of about six that I was dating/canoodling/otherwise cavorting with?

He’d started doing things like asking if I’d consider raising my kids Jewish (I answered with an abstract ponderance on religious tolerance) and then he said “I love you” on the phone… to which I responded “OK...bye!” So imagine the fear that crept into my heart when he called to say he was on the way over with a surprise for me- and sounded so genuinely pleased and excited. I paced the floor praying to Our Lady of Ann Taylor that this dumbass wasn’t going to propose. He was about to leave on an extended trip and I could just see him wanting to lock me in before he left… I think I threw up at least once, but that could have been the eight vodka shots- I mean, glasses of water I drank to get rid of my nervous hiccups.

He arrived with… (sit down… trust me)
TWO VENUS FLY TRAPS.
Yes, the plants. The ones that eat flies. One for him and one for me. Aren’t you just swooning from the romance? No? Cynic.
Lest you think me some materialistic snob, you should know that I would indeed have swooned over say, a bar of dark chocolate or good paperback- either of which would have cost him less than those … things.
That was the point- this “gift” (term used loosely) demonstrated that not only did this guy not know a damn thing about me, he didn’t care to even try. I make no secret of the fact that I am the evil black thumb of death to all plants. I also don’t try to disguise that I am in no way shape or form an “outdoorsy” type of chick who might put carnivorous botanicals on her amazon.com wish list. If you insist on bringing flora of some kind, I am the type of woman you bring cut flowers intended to look lovely with no expectation of long-term of survival.

The kicker of all this? Dear Walter would like me to keep these atrocious little beasts while he is away on his trip. Yes, he wanted me to FEED the damn things. And let them live in my space. With my cats. This was, as they say, the venus fly trap that broke the relationship’s last straw nerve. I put them on a windowsill in my office and dumped some flat diet coke into them when I remembered. Oh, and I let my student worker stick her pencil eraser into their little jaws every so often just for shits and giggles.

When Walter returned two weeks later, I picked him up from the airport as promised. (I should note that I met Husband during those two weeks. And I DID know he was “the one”. J) In the cup holders of my car were the sad wilting remnants of Walter’s love offerings. We had a 15-minute car ride to his apartment which was just enough time for me to rattle off my “this just isn’t working out… and oh, by the way, sorry… don’t know what’s wrong with the plants” speech. I don’t think I let him get more than about three words in before I pulled in the parking lot of his apartment complex and evicted him, his luggage, and those wretched plants. I’m pretty sure I didn’t even put the car in park- again, it just seemed like too much effort for that relationship.

So that, my friends, is the story of the worst gift someone ever tried to give me. Let this be a cautionary tale: venus fly traps are the sort of present you should give VERY selectively. Really, it’s a very niche market for venus fly traps suitable for gifting. Chances are, if your lady friend shaves her armpits you should choose something else.

Husband arrived for our first date with M&Ms, which I had mentioned in passing on the phone three nights earlier. Hence the marriage and allowing him to impregnate me.

How about you? Worst gift? Best one?

Funny Husband!

2008-05-30T07:20:00.000-07:00

*Sitting at the dinner table by front window*

Me: Hey, some kind of little critter just went skittering down the front walk...

Him: What was it?

Me: Not sure- bunny, squirrel, neighbor's cat...?

Him: Fraggle?

*Sitting on the couch playing with his new Blackberry*

Me: Oh, hey, watch this... I can update my Twitter from our phones!

Him: ... does that hurt?...

Me: Not as much as you'd think.

Surfacing

2008-05-27T11:47:00.000-07:00

Wow… it’s been over a month. Let me begin by saying I have missed writing and posting here desperately- it’s not for lack of desire. But you know the saying… “life gets in the way”. Well, it has. And certainly not necessarily a bad kind of in the way… just in the way. I am pretty well full-steam-ahead-damn-the-torpedoes from about 5:30 a.m. until the baby beds down at around 8:00. Then I try my best to keep my eyes open long enough to spend some time with Husband. (And let’s face it.. if I’m conscious enough to be up, we’ll both want to have sex- I mean, How I Met Your Mother is a good show.. but not that good.) Then I’ll need to wake up with Baby Girl anywhere from 2-5 times over night. Lately it’s been more like 5. (We’ve had our first experience with the fabled ear infection. That bacteria made me it’s bitch.) And there’s what whole work thing, blah, blah, blah… What’s that? You’re sick of hearing me moan about my great Husband, adorable baby, and good job? Me too. So I’ll quit.

We started the kiddo on rice cereal. Yes, she’s still breastfed. No, I am not supplementing with formula. I try hard to avoid being judgmental of anyone (except for Republicans) but for a relatively well-educated suburban privileged person to have a baby and then not breastfeed even when they are capable of doing so? Well, I think it’s pretty crappy. Even the formula companies, who have a blue bazillion dollars tied up in you using their product, cop to the fact that breastmilk is the absolute best thing for your child. We’re not talking about parenting style or lifestyle choice or anything intangible like that. (Yes, breastfeeding has intangible benefits for bonding, etc. but let’s not even go there.) If we talk just in terms of SCIENCE, of what can be tested and proven beyond doubt, breastmilk is the best thing. Obviously folks will have medical conditions that will prevent breastfeeding- I’m certainly not suggesting someone should endanger their own health to do it. The kid needs you alive and healthy. And it would be insanely obtuse of me to say that a single mother working an hourly shift job in which she only gets two 15-minute breaks a day (or someone in equally difficult circumstances) can do what I’m doing with the pumping every two hours, etc. And having multiples complicates things- especially if we’re talking triplets, quads, etc. I’m just saying that if your circumstances are like mine (meaning none that would really prevent you from breastfeeding) why the hell wouldn’t you except for plain selfishness? As long as my body will comply, there will not be any formula in my daughter’s diet. Does that mean I’m pumping constantly and taking fenugreek and drinking mother’s milk tea and cutting out caffeine and drinking enough water to rehydrate Southern California? Yep. And do I think it makes me a better mother? Damn skippy.

You know, now that I think about it, being a Mom has made me pretty judgmental on a lot of fronts. I guess you get to feeling like you have a right. That’s probably dangerous, but I’m too damn tired to care. So while I’m on this bitchy sanctimonious rant, let’s talk about “crying it out”. If I hear from one more person that I have to let my daughter cry it out so she’ll “learn to sleep on her own”, I may punch them in the damn face. The cry-it-out approach is, in my book, borderline neglect. Letting a helpless infant who is dependent upon you for everything and doesn’t yet fully understand the world around them cry themselves to exhaustion out of fear and loneliness is not “teaching” them anything except that they can’t count on you and they’re right to be afraid and lonely. They’re not learning to self-soothe, they’re learning to give up because it doesn’t matter how much they need you, you don’t give a damn. Yes, they’ll get older and learn to work the system a little bit, and you’ll have to start being firm about things. But before they can even talk? Not possible. There are, of course, modified approaches in which you don’t just abandon them completely to wail until they collapse from the exertion. I find those more palatable. But just straight cry it out? Not at our house.

And speaking of shit I’m tired of hearing about, let me say this: MY BABY SLEEPS IN MY BED. GET THE FUCK OVER IT. But more on that for another time. I’m too grouchy to write a tirade about the anti-co-sleeping zealots.

Ahem.

On to things non-baby-related. Miley Cyrus, to be exact. Miley has been apologizing a lot for those Vanity Fair photos. Miley, sweetie, please stop. Because you, Miley, are the only person whose judgment in this whole debacle was age-appropriate. What 15-year-old girl, newly cognizant of her sexuality (and the power contained therein) and wanting desperately to be a grown-up wouldn’t have agreed to those photos? Poor judgment? Yep, but she FIFTEEN. It’s her job to have relatively poor judgment and to try to be too big for her britches. Now… Annie Leibovitz? She’s an edgy artist, true. And this is her “style” blah, blah, blah… but she’s also a woman. And I expect better out of women for other women, particularly for young women. This includes creating art without turning Hannah Montana into Lolita before she’s even old enough to have READ Lolita, much less comprehend the implications. I think there’s an argument to be made here about consent. If we agree by most courts’ standards that she’s not old enough to consent to sex, shouldn’t we also agree she’s not old enough to consent to having her sexuality splayed on the pages of a magazine read largely by folks too old to date her legally? Vanity Fair? Completely in the wrong to print them- but did you expect less? They’ve got a product to sell. Not an excuse, mind you, but predictable. This brings us to the people who I think should be strung up on a line by their toenails- Mr. and Mrs. Montana. AKA, Billy Ray Cyrus and whoever the hell her Mom is- Tammy Lynn Cyrus? (I don’t know- seemed like a good name for her.) My point here being, her damn father APPEARED in some of the pictures. He and Mama should have been front-and-center demanding editorial and artistic authority and USING IT. The sad part is, they seem to have a product to sell too, and that took precedence. Oh, and Disney, please stop tsk-tsk-ing at Vanity Fair for “exploiting” Miley. Your big concern here is that their marketing strategy was wildly different than yours- and you feel like you’ve got a bigger ownership stake.
*SIGH*- see? Judgmental.

Coming soon... my brush with blogger fame and why I nearly peed myself with excitement while reading this guy...

Worry not!

2008-04-07T06:55:00.000-07:00

I am not dead. Just working and Mom-ing and wife-ing and trying hard to lose some baby weight. And we have termites. And .... well, you get the picture. Nothing earth-shattering- busines as usual, just that business is very heavy right now.
Baby Girl is magically delicious as ever.
Back soon with real actual non-baby-related thoughts.

Sadness: Amelia Grace

2008-03-11T13:32:00.000-07:00

You may remember a few weeks back when I asked for thoughts and prayers for my sister who was pregnant and in kidney failure.
Yeah. I said "was" pregnant. :( So you know where this post is going...
Amelia Grace was stillborn last night as a result of a placental abruption. She weighed 9 oz. and I'm told she was positively beautiful.
I am heartbroken for my sister and for our whole family. Amelia is another in a long line of pregnancy losses for this family, and the third stillbirth in just my immediate family.
Send some love my sister's way- because as she begins mourning for her daughter, she's also starting the long road of a kidney transplant.
Fare forward, little voyager Amelia....

Three Months

2008-03-10T10:59:00.000-07:00

Dear Viv,
Your Daddy and I are trying hard not to blink these days, because if we do, we will surely miss one of the 10,000 new things you’ve started doing lately. Someday when your own children are born, people will say “oh, they change so quickly”. And while I hope I’ll have raised you well enough that you won’t roll your eyes to their face, it will sound terribly cliché to you. It did to me. But just FYI, they’re more right than you’ll be able to imagine. There’s a reason grown people will sit and stare at their sleeping babies- it’s because they know that sleeping baby is changing right in front of them and will be different by the time the nap is over. (That and they’re paranoid the kid will quit breathing- but you’ll learn about that when your own baby is born, too.)

The last three months have been the most breathtakingly amazingly beautiful of my life, and at the same time the most exhausting and difficult. You have changed me, Baby Girl. You have changed your father. You’ve changed our marriage, our families, our life… Your Dad and I were a little older than most of the first-time parents we know. I was 31 and Daddy was 32 when you were born. We were pretty complete people with a little living under our belts. Or at least we thought we were. See, we knew intellectually what we were getting into. You were very much planned for and desperately wanted. We read all the books and asked 45,000 questions of every medical professional and experienced parent we could get to hold still. (Don’t worry- we didn’t use force. Much.) But deep down, we knew that despite all our planning and research, we were in for the ride of our lives. And Viv, you have very much lived up to that prophesy!

In the past three months, you have transformed from a snuffly, grunty little blob who pooped every time she ate to a juicy, round, pink-cheeked little Buddha who smiles and laughs at her goofy parents’ stunts. (And who only poops every 3-5 days. Can I thank you for saving that up for Daddy the last two times? Love ya, kid!) I can’t explain it quite fully, but the way I love you has changed. When you were first born, I loved you with a fierce protectiveness for your physical well-being. You slept most of the time, as newborns do. The first weeks of life can be a bit unfulfilling for a new Mom in that a newborn is so… disconnected. You didn’t really need ME (aside from my breastmilk) in particular, you just needed to be held and kept warm and fed and generally to finish gestating for a while. You weren’t unconscious, but you weren’t really in a relationship with us yet. So the only way I could demonstrate the enormity (look it up… I’ll wait…) of my love for you was to do my absolute damndest best to see to your physical and functional needs. I fought hard to breastfeed you- I was simultaneously smugly victorious and incredibly relieved as you gained weight. I worried obsessively over you being warm enough, a practice which drove your father into an enormous sleep deficit during your first few days. When you became jaundiced, I stepped up the breastfeeding and adhered to the bilirubin blanket instructions as though they were handed to us by Jesus himself. Your Dad and I probably used enough Boudreaux’s for a sumo wrestler’s tushie, because dammit, our baby wasn’t going to have diaper rash. When I first went back to work, I drove over to the daycare every single day at lunch to breastfeed you to keep you from getting one more bottle. You slept, as you still do, curled against me on your side, where we can breathe in tandem and you are never far from the sound of my heartbeat. And I’ll be honest, Viv… I thought myself a good Mom because I was always prepared with a binkie and a change of clothes. But sometimes… like when I couldn’t make you happy at 3 a.m… I didn’t feel like YOUR Mom. Sometimes I felt like an imposter just trying to do right by this gorgeous wonderful little baby until someone who knew what they were doing was going to show up. I loved you tons… it was just that sometimes I wasn’t sure it was enough for you.

Gradually, over the weeks, we got to know each other. And you woke up from your newborn sleepy snuggly coma. You were slow to the social smiles, no doubt because you were premature. But Viv, the first day you looked me in the face and smiled ON-PURPOSE-AT-ME-BECAUSE-I’M-MAMA…oh, sweet Jesus… I was completely and totally overwhelmed. You know those tons I loved you before that? Add about a hundred million of them. It was finally there- the recognition, the look on your face, the happiness to see me, the instant calming effect of me just picking you up. Finally, you knew… this is Mama, she loves me and she makes it better. (And she has the breastmilk… but I’m sure that’s entirely ancillary.) It was then, sweet Baby Girl, that I quit feeling like an imposter. I started trusting my instincts more after that and you seemed to relax as well. Now, I feel as though I know you almost as well as I know myself. I guess that makes sense, really, because you were so recently a part of me quite literally. You are this person, this little girl, and you clearly understand who I am to you and that makes you happy. It makes it all so incredibly sweetly worthwhile. All the long nights, all the frustrations, all the panic, all the hard work of trying to make certain you knew me and could trust me to do everything within any power I’ve ever had to make sure you’re safe and happy- they’ve resulted in this adorably joyful baby who lights up when I walk into the room. I am so grateful to get to be your Mama and I promise you I will never quit using all my powers (and maybe some other people’s too) to keep this bond between us.

Shortly after you and I got right with each other, you started responding to your Daddy’s goofy self the same way. I can’t even begin to tell you how happy you make your father. He was born to be your Daddy and he absolutely lives to make you smile. I know he struggled at bit at the beginning much in the same way I did- loving you more than he knew what to do with, but unable to do much except see to your most basic needs. Vivi, please write this down and tuck it away for later- if you choose to marry a man, MARRY A MAN LIKE YOUR FATHER. He will never ever be the Daddy who “babysits.” He has, from moment one, been my full and complete partner in parenting. He’s quite often even better at this gig than I am, and I’m thrilled by that. He loves you (and me) in a way that puts no limits, no conditions on what he will do for us. I mentioned you’ve changed our marriage and I want you to understand that it’s for the better. Seeing your Daddy with you, how he anticipates your needs and thrives on your joy, it has only made me love him more. And while our time alone is shorter and … um… less adventurous maybe (I know- EWWW, Moo-om!) I know neither one of us would change a thing. He is the best kind of person and the best kind of man. One of the smartest things I have ever done was picking him to be your Daddy.

So, at the end of three months, we’ve gotten into a nice little rhythm at our house, you me, and Daddy. Part of that comes from you settling into a more predictable routine just as a matter of being an older baby. Part of it is the result of the hard work your Daddy and I put in. We read a lot in the beginning about “attachment parenting”, and to us, it just felt like what we would have done instinctively, so we went with it. And it seems to have paid off. In the most basic terms, you’re attached to us, we’re attached to you, and we’re more attached to each other. We’re in a relationship now, the three of us. A very good healthy relationship- called a “family” I believe.

Love you,
Mama

Just call me Lady Hussein Liberal!

2008-02-29T06:09:00.000-08:00

The Momocrats, in their infinite wisdom, have started Just Call Me Hussein Day in response to fools like Bill Cunningham who is obviously still seven years old.
See, seems some of the conservative pundits having not been able to find any LEGIT way to discredit Obama and being incapable of debating him on the merits of his policies, have begun referring to him as B. Hussein Obama or Barack Hussein Obama.
Now, to most of us, the slimy tactics here are clear. The only Hussein known to the average American (the ones watching E! for their "news") is Saddam. They're aiming for a subconscious connection and a manipulation of the average American through what amounts to (at best) junior high psychology. It's insulting. It's disgusting. And it's underhanded.
Personally, I find this amusing. Because nothing says "holy shit, we're in big trouble- 'cause even the people we think are stupid are catching on" like resorting to something like this. And because, as the Momocrats put it, bitch is the new black, I am declaring myself a Hussein today. I hope you will too. Visit the Momocrats site and catch yourself a fancy new button for your blog and join up with Obama as an honorary Hussein!
Oh, and I'm supposed to tell you an embarrassing story about someone making fun of my name. My name is pretty benign. My maiden name is a little unusual and hard to pronounce, but doesn't easily rhyme with anything kids would seize upon. But my initials? LG or LRG more specifically. You can only imagine what kids did with that and you can only imagine what that does to the body image of an already overly-self-conscious pubescent girl. 'Nuff said.
Happy Just Call Me Hussein Day!

Why he's been my friend for over 20 years...

2008-02-27T13:04:00.000-08:00

Email conversation with my Friend, J...

Me: I'm running away to join the circus. Care to join?

J: I thought you already worked there.... I know I do... but, pray tell, why are you running away?

Me: I'm running away because there are no good jobs outside the circus in which I can wear a tiara and tutu full time. (Trust me... people here look at you funny if you try.)
That and I want a career where I can stay drunk with carnies. Much more interesting.

J: LOL! Tiaras, Tutus and Beer, oh my!

From the "WTF????" Files

2008-02-27T12:36:00.000-08:00

Congress Asks for Clemens Probe

Seriously? We’re going to waste even more federal resources on this bullshit? I mean, not like we have a WAR on or an upcoming election for the LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD… let’s have the government worry about whether Roger Clemens took a needle to the ass and lied about it! Folks, I’m sorry, but this is A) not the government’s business and B) not really what I’d call a priority even if it was the government’s business.
“But the integrity of our national heroes is coming into question!”
I have a couple of problems with this. One, sports figures shouldn’t be heroes. They’re just sports figures. This is the big mistake we make- assuming that people with athletic ability are somehow more valuable than the rest of us and can be assumed to be good people. Not true on either count. This whole practice of deifying pro athletes puts tremendous value on something (the aforementioned athletic ability) that hasn’t really been especially beneficial to mankind since we quit having to kill large wild beasts for sustenance. (So please explain to me why they get $7 million a year to throw a ball and I get my considerably smaller salary for protecting healthcare for the elderly?) There are some really crappy people in pro athletics, just like there are some really crappy people down at your local mega-mart. And vice versa- good folks in both arenas too. When we expect someone to be a better person just because they can hit a lot of homeruns, we’re setting ourselves up for disappointment. There’s nothing altruistic about being a pro athlete- you play a game you love for a buttload of money. I’m not knocking it- would that I could have such a career, with the loving and the buttload of money. But it still wouldn’t mean I’m worthy of someone’s respect or admiration. Before you point to all the “community service” performed by athletes, let us note that A) most of them do it as mandated by a team, league, or US court system and B) it is not typically their life’s mission. I’m not saying that makes them bad people- just not heroes. They’re entertainers, nothing more. If you were expecting heroic integrity from Roger Clemens or any other athlete, well, you’re kind of an idiot in the first place. So Congress, for the love of God, just let the damn players get all ‘roided up and hit balls to the moon. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter to anyone except the women who will be sorely disappointed by the state of their testicles. Get back to trying to keep soldiers alive and making sure my next President isn’t a lying war-mongering zealot.

Too Pretty To Fly
OK, again… seriously?? “Um… see… like… we’re young and cute and these flight attendants, they were just all hatin’ on us! ‘Cause we’re pretty! And we didn’t do ANYTHING!”
Did anyone else catch the part where one of them got into a profanity-laden heated dispute with another passenger over the restroom? Methinks that might have been what got you into trouble. Perhaps before your ego eats the rest of your capacity for responsibility and reason, you should take some time to reflect.
I’m mean, REALLY! The arrogance! And what’s worse is that CNN picked it up! Shame on you, CNN… I expect this kind of crap from… oh, I don’t know… TMZ… or FoxNews… but you?
Oh, I know… I’m just mad ‘cause you’re so pretty.

I have to go get my rage under control before Congress asks me to testify. Here- my cute child should help:

Jesus & Vivi: Both treated reverently....

2008-02-15T08:37:00.001-08:00

First, thanks to my sis, Erin for the best laugh I've had this week. I present you, Jesus of the Week! Appropriate to my last post, there's even a 90s Hipster Jesus featured!

Oh, and here's something else to make your whole week...

I know... I've already thrown down my wallet and car keys in surrender...

Venti Latte with a side of Skoal

2008-02-11T12:30:00.000-08:00

This weekend, my Beloved shooed me out the door with strict orders to go, go now, and not to come back until I’d had a couple of hours to myself and a cup of coffee. (And later that night, my sex drive showed up to the party… coincidence?)

So I nursed the baby, promised to actually come back, and split for Starbucks. Mmm… Starbucks…nothing says having some “me time” like a $4 cup of joe. I love Starbucks- I love it for its overpriced coffee and pseudo-pretentiousness. I love it for the smell of freshly ground fair trade beans soothing away the yuppie guilt of patrons eyeing up the latest adult alternative compilation cd. I love the little sleeve on my coffee that simultaneously keeps my hands cool and generates more paper waste. I love the case full of trans-fat-laden scones and cookies arranged to look like the local organic bakery dropped them off (off a truck from an Atlanta warehouse?). I love how early-90s-poser I sound when I order my grande-skinny-mocha-no-whip. It is a place where I can harken back to 1994 when I was in college, coffeehouses were social centers, and throwing around words like “living wage” and “social justice” would get you laid.

I sauntered in, wearing my clogs and looking all hipster-granola-mom. I got in line and started to slip into Starbucks bliss. That’s when the illusion began crashing down around me. Here are the top ten signs that while you may be in Starbucks, you’re still in South Cackalackey…

10. The Starbucks is in the Target. And it’s not a Super Target. And it’s the only Starbucks in town.
9. Taking into account the clientele, the employees have added scraps of paper to the “tall, grande, venti” signs to read “small, medium, large”.
8. The boy in front of you is wearing (I kid you not) camouflage from head to toe. And it’s not Halloween. And those are his real teeth.
7. The girlfriend of camo boy has just requested “one of those chocolatey coffees”.
6. When the Starbucks employee says “a mocha?”, the girlfriend says “yeah- that’s it! I didn’t know how to say it right…”
5. And then she asks for a straw. (No, it wasn’t iced.)
4. The tip jar is empty save for a cigarette pack wrapper.
3. The barista says “I have a non-fat latte, no foam for Earlene!”
2. One of the patrons orders her coffee “without the Cool Whip”.
And my favorite…
1. There is a spirited discussion going on at one of the tables. About the irrelevance of the electoral college in the modern election? The wage inequities for creative professionals that led to the writer’s strike? Heck no….
ABOUT NASCAR. Yes, that’s right. An entire table full of raised voices and passionate discourse about Tony Stewart. Over lattes.

*SIGH*
Didn’t matter. I got two hours alone. And a large chocolatey coffee. With Cool Whip. Yee haw!

Asexual milk machine seeks guidance...

2008-01-31T07:57:00.000-08:00

Despite every book that told me as much would happen, despite all the warnings from girlfriends, I find myself completely and utterly taken aback by how disinterested I am in sex. This is NOT like me… I love sex. I enjoy sex. I am not shy about loving and enjoying sex. But here I am- quietly and irrationally resenting Husband for the awful crime of… *gasp*… being attracted to me and loving me enough to want some.
There are the usual reasons for my lack of zest, of course. I am tired from trying to find time for a full-time job, a marriage, and oh yeah, that crazy little gal I call my daughter. I am still trying to come to terms with the new physical version of myself. That’s a big one. And it’s not just the changes from pregnancy and birth, but things like the absence of pedicures and frequently shaved legs- little things I would never have neglected prior to the baby. It’s tough to find your inner vixen when she’s been driven away by the constant smell of breastmilk puke.
There’s also the state of my relationship with Husband. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still an excellent and healthy marriage. But it’s also still a marriage with a newborn. It’s easy to switch on for to make the sexy time when you’ve had ample time with your partner for connecting, communicating, just being together. Husband and I hadn’t slept in the same bed for a couple of weeks up until we figured out this reflux business. Our time together, our conversations, they focus largely on our daughter’s needs. That’s appropriate, obviously. We are putting her first and working together to be good parents. But it does leave you feeling sort of… I don’t know… far away from your partner. Definitely not as intimately and profoundly in tune with one another as you were before baby- you’re too busy being in tune with the baby.
But I think the biggest obstacle has been my state of mind. The only way I can describe how I feel is … well… utilitarian. My body and my very self seem to be in a constant state of producing/providing/procuring to meet someone else’s needs or demands. The baby needs a ton of care on a daily basis, but I have to give credit that Husband has done his half and more. Beyond that, she requires my body to produce her sustenance. Which means almost every other aspect of my life is in some way ruled by how it will affect her milk. My sleep, my diet, my clothing, my schedule, my appearance, my exercise… all are modified to meet her needs. And I’m back at work- so there are a myriad of people who need things of me here, and a lot of pressure to meet the needs of my internal clients. Then there’s all the things I should be doing for others and feel guilty for not getting to- the unwritten thank you notes, the unreturned phone calls, the family and friends who want to see the baby, the meals I never cook, the house I cannot seem to clean…
So by the end of the day, the prospect of sex sometimes feels like one more demand, one more person who needs something to be given of my most basic self. Like, I can barely find time to eat during the day and you want the last bit of my energy to get your rocks off? It feels like one more way in which someone needs to use my body, even when I have no time or energy to use it for myself. It’s a completely irrational and unfair way for me to feel, too. Husband is a wonderfully giving and attentive lover- he wants to make love for the feeling of connectedness and for my pleasure as much for his own fulfillment. He has never pressured me. And in my more rested and rational moments, I want sex as much if not more than he does. I mean.. he’s HOT! And good at it! (Sorry, Mom…) But when I have not been alone in weeks except to go to Target (to buy things for the baby) and I can’t wait to get to work so I’ll be able to pee whenever I need to… well, not so much on the sexy time. Now enters the guilt for how this must make poor Husband feel. I don’t for a single second want him to think he is not desirable and wonderful and amazing. Because he is- it’s the ultimate “it’s not you, it’s me”.
So veteran Mamas… any advice? Scratch that. Advice I’ve got- all of it impractical shit like “make time for yourself… take a long bath…get away for a few hours…” which I’m sure you all got too. How about just some reassurance and a hang in there or two? Anyone want to be a wet nurse /body double for about 24 hours? I swear that’s all I’d need…

One Part Mama, One Part Detective, One Part Amateur Nurse...

2008-01-29T08:24:00.000-08:00

Want to know the single greatest discovery made by modern humans? Maalox. Without a freakin' doubt- screw space travel, refrigeration, computers, all of that... Maalox is the most beautiful gift ever given to the human race. For it was Maalox, just 1/8th of a teaspoon, that gave me five hours of sleep. In a row. TWICE. And it was Maalox that transformed my grumpy, fidgety, unhappy baby into a chubby cherub with a sunny loving disposition. I heart Maalox. I'd marry it if I could. I'd have little Maalox-bottle babies.

As you might have guessed, we've had a little bout with reflux at our house. But this was so called "silent" reflux. (Which is a crap name because babies who have it are anything BUT silent.) Our little dolly didn't spit up often and had only gone all Exorcist-child with the vomit twice. But she was only sleeping 1 1/2 hours at a time and feeding as often as she woke up. And she only slept decently when I held her while I was sitting up. She had hiccups all day every day and a runny nose. Oh, and this "silent" reflux came with a God-awful grunty/throat clearing sound. Top that off with a bad case of the heinous fussies and you get two parents who are at their wits' end. IT. WAS. AWFUL.

But thanks to Mama's astonishing Internet research skills, we've figured things out. The good doctor has concurred and written a prescription for Zantac, bless him. It's like having an entirely different baby- one who sleeps and doesn't seem pissed off about being alive. And now she comes with functioning non-zombie parents!

So... good times at our casa. Now I leave you with a photo of Her Refluxness in her Sunday-go-to-meetin' clothes. (Those are church clothes, for the Yankees...)

Now with 50% less yawning!

2008-01-24T05:57:00.001-08:00

Praise be to God, Allah, Mohamed, Jesus, Mary, the Saints, Mother Earth, and any other spirit/deity involved...
The baby? She slept. 3- 3 1/2 hours in a row. Three times. IN ONE NIGHT.
Mama feels like a new woman!

In other news...
I got this fun phone call at home yesterday. Seriously... I can take attacking candidates on voting records, issues, even things they've said on the campaign trail. But this was a 2 1/2 minute message in which this guy (no joke) accused Hillary Clinton of slashing tires, killing a cat, and making "false promises to adopt an orphan" despite knowing Bill had a "harem" in the White House.
If I want that kind of shit, I'll buy the Enquirer. And how threatened, how desperate, how tiny-dicked does a guy have to be to hate her so much?
I love living in the South, but sometimes the politics just kill me. An ignorant, overwhelming, knee-jerk fear of all things not extreme Bible-banging right wing is not being a good conservative or a good Christian or even a smart human being. It's ignorance and a patent refusal to think. People down here will believe just about any damn thing no matter how wild if it's told to them about a Democrat or a supposed liberal. I could send out an email claiming I saw one of the Dem candidates bludgeon an old lady to death with a baby wrapped in the Chinese flag in front of a 100 foot tall burning cross on a swastika-shaped stage. Within hours, it would be "truth". And people would use it.

Oh, and hey... my condolences to Matilda Rose. Heath Ledger may have been eye candy to the rest of us, but he was your Daddy. Lots of love, little one.

And while you're thinking about people, send some Internet-love to my sister. She's 13 weeks pregnant and just got a diagnosis of kidney disease and possible lupus. It's going to be a long road with a certain premature delivery of this baby and a kidney transplant in her future. Makes me want to quit whining about my sleep and go hug my baby. I think I will.

Ciao!

WARNING: May Induce Diabetic Coma

2008-01-23T09:48:00.000-08:00

I know, right?

Could you not just eat her cheeks with a side of chocolate sauce?

Just went back to work- more on that later.

She's still cluster feeding and not sleeping longer than 2 hours at night. More on that later as well.

But I leave you with a Funny Husband moment.

Scene: 12:30 a.m., our living room...Baby Girl has been agitated and screaming since 9:00. Mama has just handed her off to Daddy ten minutes ago.

Me: Is she SLEEPING for you? Just like that?

Husband: (in a desperate stage whisper) go!.... save yourself!..... just don't forget me........

(Insert dull hum here...)

2007-12-28T07:39:00.000-08:00

Can't write.

No words.

So tired.

Must blog.

Here... very very very awake baby cutness...

Observations

2007-12-26T08:21:00.000-08:00

Childbirth is both harder and easier than you think. Epidurals are beautiful.

Nursing a newborn is exhausting. Lovely and sweet at many times, but exhausting.

If I had known I could function this well on this little rest, I could have done SO much more in college…

Getting out the door with a newborn is on par with a full-scale military maneuver. It involves planning, equipment, and strategy that would make Patton himself dizzy.

However far you think a newborn can projectile vomit, add 5 feet.

When you are home with a newborn, there is no shame in being unshowered in your jammies at 5:00 p.m.

Breast milk is sticky. And stubborn. And EVERYWHERE.

Keeping a stranger's grimy hands away from your preemie's face will bring out your inner ninja.

Even the best baby (i.e.- mine) has her meltdowns. Resistance is futile. Steve Winwood was right- roll with it, baby.

Labor and childbirth are worth it a thousand times over for the look on your sweet Husband’s face when he’s with your daughter.

Happiness is...

2007-12-11T13:08:00.000-08:00

Vivian Mae
2:44 a.m. December 6, 2007
6 pounds, 12 ounces (5 weeks early…wow…)

She’s a good baby, quite the sleeper and a champion breastfeeder.
But she’s still a newborn. And a preemie who arrived after a huge last minute push at work, some pre-term labor, some bedrest, and other crazy things.

So forgive my absence, but I leave you with all this smooshy-faced cuteness.

I am the happiest I have ever been in my life.

Toenails & Mucous Plugs

2007-11-08T07:07:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I passed what the doc believes was some or all of my mucous plug. I won’t indulge you with the details (beg all you want, still no) but I believe this mucous-plug-passing business is actually God’s way of easing you into the idea of slimy grotesque things oozing out of your vagina. She (God, that is) also apparently enjoys the element of surprise. That God… such a kidder. (Get it, “kidder”…. no? Oh, bite me- like you’re Dane Cook.)

At any rate, I pass this goo and think to myself “Self, you are only 32 weeks along… maybe you should call the doc.” So I did. And they ordered me into the office for an internal exam. One would think I’d be cringing and gritting my teeth because now the on-call doctor would be putting a metal instrument and a couple of gloved fingers inside of my intimate areas. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t excited about that part, but my first real thought was “OH MY GOD, THEY’LL SEE MY TOENAILS!” See, the boots I had on (one of only two pairs of shoes that fit my water balloo- I mean, feet) tend to get a bit malodorous. And that makes the trouser socks under them stinky. Which means there was no way I was putting my feet in stirrups, stirrups that would be right near the doctor’s head, without removing both boots and socks AND washing my feet in the bathroom right after I peed in the Dixie cup. But underneath those boots and socks? Dear sweet lord of the Twinkies…I can’t SEE my toes, much less reach them well enough to apply polish with any precision. I haven’t had time for a pedicure in weeks. In other words? My piggies were going “EWWWWWW!!!” all the way home. Chipped off polish, uneven edges, etc. etc… like I should be going barefoot in a gas station bathroom… to get condoms…for my Mom.

So what did I do? This is SC, I apologized of course. The sweet, kind (and skinny, perfectly made-up, might I add) nurse and doctor come in and I start babbling about how I’m so sorry for the state of my toenails and I can’t paint them myself and Husband offered, but that scares me and there’s no time for a pedicure because work has been crazy and I wasn’t anticipating having anyone SEE them today and I normally keep them so well done…… blah, blah, blah… Like a Mary Kay lady on meth, I was. To which the doc replies “Well, the important question is… did you shave your legs?”

Of course. I got Dr. Smartassypants. Yeah, he was kidding and meant absolutely no harm. He’s a big sweet gentle old giant of a man whom I actually like very much. But people, I am 8 months pregnant. NO SENSE OF HUMOR here. At least not where my declining beauty regimen standards are concerned.

But yes, I had shaved my legs. Might have missed a few spots trying to work around my insanely large child, but an “A” for effort, I assure you.

The rest of the visit told us this:
No, I am not dilating or effacing, so no imminent danger of early delivery.
Yes, the child is still huge. Estimated at 4 lbs. 6 oz. yesterday- on par with a 35 week baby.
She has hair. Lots of it. This prompted her father to ask “Honey, is there something you want to tell me?” Because he and I? Cue balls at birth.
The ultrasound tech said (ominously) “you’ll be coming back to see me…” and what she means is a 37-week ultrasound to determine exactly how freakishly enormous my daughter has gotten. And what that will mean for my delivery options.

Until then, my Mom has started the Baby Betting Pool. When will she come? How much will she weigh? We have everything from December 10th at just under 7 lbs (from baby Sister… she loves me…) to my Dad who says January 7th at 9 lbs. 12 oz. (clearly my father is holding some kind of grudge).

What do you say? I mean… other than “gee thee to a nail salon!” Here, let me distract you from my gnarly smelly toes with cute ultrasound pictures!

Scenes from an Ultrasound: Part Deux

2007-10-31T10:23:00.000-07:00

Ultrasound Tech: Wow… she’s big….

Us: Really? How big?

Ultrasound Tech: Well, the measurements put her at 3 lbs. 2 oz.

Us: Hmmm….

*cut to OB’s office*

OB: She’s a big baby!

Me: Yeah, the tech mentioned that.

OB: No, really- only about 15-20% of babies are that big!

Me: Well, that figures. Her Daddy was 10 lbs. 3 oz.

OB: (palpating my abdomen) Yep, she’s a big big girl.

Me: Terrific.

So the general consensus seems to be that Vivian is A) healthy and B) large. This suits me just fine. I’d much rather partake of an epidural and other God-given medical interventions to birth my behemoth child than to worry over a tee-niny baby in the NICU. But don’t think Mama won’t push for the induction if Baby Girl continues to plump up at this rate.
Here’s the Reader’s Digest report on the physical aspects of the pregnancy.
Large. So large.
Heartburn, reflux, repeat.
Can’t reach itchy ankles.
Four words: feet in my ribs.
But the hard part is that I’m now officially riding the “pregnancy emotional roller-coster” as my favorite POS book called it. I cry. A lot. And I’m so damn tired I can’t see straight. Which probably doesn’t help the crying. It’s a crappy gig, since I am not accustomed to being unable to control these things with an iron… um… tear duct.
Don’t get me wrong- I am well aware these are temporary conditions and I will gladly do this for ten more weeks to get a healthy happy baby. But only doing it for nine weeks wouldn’t suck. Just sayin’.

An Open Letter

2007-10-08T10:35:00.000-07:00

To The Women of the 2nd Floor:

It is horrifically bad she-karma to allow a PREGNANT WOMAN, much less any other sister, to exit the ladies room with her dress rucked up in the backside of her panties.

You know who you are.

A curse upon you. May your maxi pad adhesive yank at your pubes.

Sincerely,
The Waddling Woman in Green

Household Budget: Mortgage, Groceries, Health Care Fraud...

2007-10-04T11:10:00.000-07:00

Over at DC Metro Moms today, Lawyer Mama started a discussion about health care. She correctly points out that for the average working class family (even those of us with “good” insurance) a single major illness or accident could prove financially catastrophic. And while it’s easy to point the finger at employers for not providing better (or in some cases, any) coverage or taking on bigger a bigger share of the premiums, the reality is that their costs for employee health care are also a financial burden, particularly for small businesses. Like Lawyer Mama, I want to see the candidates go after this issue in earnest. Also like Lawyer Mama, I don’t pretend to have all the answers. But let me offer a modest proposal.

The major barrier to more comprehensive and far-reaching health care coverage we hear about is cost. Nobody wants to pay for the oft-cited "skyrocketing healthcare costs" whether that's private employers or the government through socialized medicine. The irony of this is that health plans/payers/government agencies are missing MAJOR opportunities to cut those costs (and thereby making coverage more affordable/available) through comprehensive anti-fraud programs.

I work for a company whose primary line of business is as a Program Safeguard Contractor, or PSC for the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services. Broken down into simplest terms, we detect, investigate, and hopefully try to prevent Medicare fraud and abuse. Truthfully, CMS is really the only bright spot, in that their anti-fraud endeavors through the PSCs have been amazingly effective. The one little company I work for (180 employees total) typically gives the government an 11/1 ROI. Yes, that's right- we return about $11 to the Medicare trust fund for every $1 they spend on our operations. Last year, we identified about $220 million in fraud and abuse just in Medicare claims alone. Bottom line is what we do WORKS. And works well.

But most private insurers don't have any kind of decent anti-fraud measures in place. In many states, they are required to have some specific controls, but nothing nearly so comprehensive as the Medicare PSCs. Most of them have an SIU (special investigations unit- Medicare Part D providers are required to have these) that responds to complaints of fraud, but do little or no proactive data analysis, much less trying to "connect the dots" so to speak and go after more than isolated incidents. Some have started buying into automated anti-fraud technology in the form of software (IBM is one of the major players). But without a more comprehensive program and personnel to pursue the leads, it's like turning your garden hose on a California wildfire. PSCs like our company combine data analysis with investigative services and medical review functions for a comprehensive product. Periodically-updated software that spits out reports to be analyzed by senior management with no fraud-detection experience? That's not a substitute for what we do.

There are a lot of reasons insurers don’t have better anti-fraud programs in place. Lots of payers don’t quite comprehend the worth of the investment. Some of them don’t want to risk alienating large providers with investigations. “Prompt payment” laws in most states limit the amount of time a company can spend researching claims before they’re paid. Anti-fraud detection isn’t a standard part of claims payment software or processes. Lots of reasons. But in my not-so-humble opinion, it often comes down to cost. Fraud investigation is, by the nature of the work, a slow process that doesn’t yield profits over night. Long-term savings and better health for American families take a back seat when the noisy voices of investors come calling.

The NHCAA has estimated that about 3% (about $39 billion in 2000) of what this country pays for healthcare is lost to blatant fraud, which doesn’t even account for erroneous payments and abuse. (Some of the other government agencies have put that estimate as high as 10%.) Can you imagine what recovering/preventing even a fraction of that would do for making healthcare more affordable for working class families and their employers? I would hope that the candidates would give some thought to doing a better job of mandating the level of fraud detection and prevention mechanisms that private health plans have in place. I think socialized or government-funded healthcare is a long way off in this country, but bringing down the costs of our current system would go a long way to make life a little easier for the average family.

Evil at home and abroad...

2007-10-03T08:05:00.000-07:00

This makes me so sad. And so angry.
I mean… truly… what kind of evil has to be in someone’s heart to kill BUDDHIST MONKS protesting peacefully? Monks- a group of people who truly believe and live a doctrine of non-violence.
I imagine it’s the same kind of evil that prompts someone to shoot Amish schoolchildren. But that was just one man- we can comfort ourselves with that- just one man with a questionable grip on his own sanity.
This is a government. A GROUP of people who cannot possibly have any motive to shoot these monks who have taken to the street to protest for rights and liberties they believe to be in the best interest of others. No possible motive except for the hateful greedy desire to oppress and overpower.
I think to myself- shame on them. Shame on their cold hard evil hearts.
And then I think to myself about our government. And our leaders. Our wealthy, privileged nation…whose freely elected leader just vetoed an opportunity to provide healthcare to children. A nation that pays contractors who use violence to make money at the expense of vulnerable civilians in a war-torn country. A country whose leaders preach "family values", but will rip a family apart on technicalities created by their own muddy bureaucracies.
And I am ashamed.

Car Seats, Toile, & Quad Toggles

2007-09-25T07:25:00.000-07:00

Hey, good news! We’ve finally started doing something that resembles getting ready for having a baby in the house!
Up until now, our general plan was to line a cardboard box with a nice fluffy towel and put the baby in that. You know, like with a kitten, only we’d use a good towel. My mom and sister had already given her enough clothing for approximately four outfit changes per day until she goes to kindergarten and I’m planning to do this breastfeeding thing, so we figured we were all set. OK… so we knew we weren’t. We were just pretending. (Kids like pretending, right? Right?)
Last weekend my glorious Girlfriends threw us a baby shower and we wound up with some truly useful items. For instance, we got a car seat which means the hospital will have no choice but to let her leave with us. (Suckers!)
We also started painting the nursery last night. The prior owners of our house had an affinity for the shade of yellow normally reserved for laboratory caution placards. That and very very large fruit patterns. And teal. Yes, it was a regular early 90s designer showcase. But the yellow? I believe it was a Sherman-Williams shade, “Anxiety Attack”. Or maybe “Prozac Lullaby”. It had to go. Pronto.
Now, I know infants can’t see most colors right away. (See! I’ve totally been reading those books!) But truthfully, isn’t nursery décor more about our sanity? That’s why I’ve never understood people who decorate in little animals with I’m-so-happy-I’m-smug-about-it expressions on their faces. Seems to me that at 3 a.m. when you’re rocking the baby who has been screaming for the last 14 days of its life, you’d be about ready to wring that pleasant little giraffe by his super cute neck. We’ve selected a nice neutral sage-ish green and the only animals around are some lambs with nice innocuous expressions that do not imply any superior zen levels.

And last night Husband and I had this conversation:
Husband: Do you need any clothes washed?
Me: Um yeah… can you grab that toile maternity blouse of mine?
Husband: …….. toile?........
Me: Yeah.
Husband:…… toile?......
Me: Yes, dear. The blue and cream flowery little pattern thing?
*silence*
Me: You know, this does make me wonder how much attention you were paying when you agreed to that green toile nursery bedding…
Husband: What toile nursery bedding? I’ve never seen or talked about anything “toile” in my life!
Me: You did too- we looked at it on Overstock.com!
Husband: I would remember using the word “toile”….I’m sorry, but there are things you don’t forget saying like “toile” and “quad toggle” and “not that hole!”

Yeah, so maybe we’re not totally prepared yet. But I figure we have at least 6-8 months after she’s born to clean up sexual innuendo… we’ll get to it right after the electrical outlet covers…

This just in...

2007-09-18T12:56:00.000-07:00

Bill Maher is an asshat of epic proportions.

A misogynistic, prudish, uneducated asshat.

I won't even take the time and energy to expound. Other women bloggers have done as much, more eloquently than I could manage.

But I will say this...

If I ever see him in my post-partum days, I will promptly pull up my shirt and squirt him right in the damn eye.

Reference Manuel.. I think I met him once on Spring Break...

2007-09-14T10:07:00.000-07:00

Husband has a new job! (Hooray!) Increased salary and better benefits aside, I’m pleased to report that he’s also learning a lot of new things. You see, Husband was hired for a professional position with in a large insurance-related organization. But for the first two weeks, he is taking the standard corporate new hire training as well as sitting in on some of the customer service rep training, since he’ll be delegating a lot of things to the CSRs. Husband (and I, by way of his daily recountings) have learned so much from the CSRs this week. First and foremost, we learned this:
We’re both really freakin’ grateful for our education and socio-economic status.

Here are some of the other valuable lessons!

1. We know which clinic in town pays the most for plasma donations and which blood types are more valuable.
2. An important question to ask of the trainer conducting new hire training is “What is the most common thing that gets people fired? Is it absences?”
3. When presented with a baby daddy who refuses to pay child support, it is best to seek him out at a relative’s house and threaten him with physical violence.
4. If your electricity is cut off for non-payment, you can call the utility company and tell them your child has a medical condition requiring equipment that runs on electricity- you know, like “a breathin’ machine”. This will restore your service regardless of payment status (and regardless of whether your child is actually perfectly healthy).
5. If you pay your boyfriend’s CO $100, you can get a little privacy for 15 minutes or so in order to engage in sex acts.
6. If your prior employer delays in getting you your last paycheck, you can always drive over there and threaten to blow the place up. You will be paid promptly.
7. Pennsylvania may well be either a city or a state, but it’s not one of the “major ones” that would be commonly known to everyone.
8. If a boy is semi-stalking your 16-year-old sister, there is no need to engage law enforcement or school administrators when you can simply pay $5 for admission to the high school football game and beat the boy senseless.
And last but not least…
9. If you’re at a loss, consult the “REFERENCE MANUEL” you’ve got on your desk.

I too have had some significant learning experiences at work this week. I have an office. I heart my office with rainbow and unicorn drawings all around it. Due to some ill-timed door varnishing, I had to relocate to a cube downstairs this week. It’s official, I am not cut out for life in the cube farm. Here are some notes for my fellow employees:

If I can sing along, your music is too loud. This is why the sweet baby Jesus gave us headphones.

Your chair squeaks. Loudly. Every time you move. For the love of all that is holy, FIX THAT SHIT.

I could say more… about the glorious redneck family dramas I got to listen to playing out on our phone lines, but frankly I’m exhausted. Just let it be noted that I will gladly panhandle before I sit in a cube again.

I know. I’m a snob.

I just don’t care.

Birth Order

2007-09-11T13:50:00.000-07:00

“Is this your first baby?”

Um…uh…

If I had a nickel for every time I’ve faltered trying to answer that question… well, I wouldn’t be trying to sell Husband’s kidney to pay for daycare. (Sorry guy- but you do have TWO and they won’t take mine.)

Seriously, though. I have two daughters. This is my second child. That sounds so odd, because I don’t go home every day to a little girl about to celebrate her first birthday. There are no large pieces of brightly colored plastic fun in my den. The dogs have never known the joy of high chair leftovers raining down on them. My work clothes don’t have faint yellowish spots on the shoulders and boobs. (Except for that one shirt… margaritas involved… long story.) Husband and I spend leisurely evenings playing with said dogs and chatting about each other’s days over dinner eaten in a room with *gasp* carpet on the floor.

And yet, there she is- Cecilia Ruth. Born May 2006. First child of Charles and Lauren. Grandchild of Kenneth and Lynn, of Michael and Eileen, all of whom were there to hold her, see her, love her, and kiss her goodbye. She is as real and as human to me as any of the folks who were in the room that day. She is my daughter and she was a living being, as sure as she kicked and tumbled inside of me.

I feel dishonest and as though I am dishonoring my daughter to just answer “yes” to the first baby question. In my heart, acknowledging her seems the only logical and natural thing to do. I will always miss her, and her short life left an indelible and bittersweet impression on my heart. But she’s still my child and I’m proud to be her mother. I’m proud of what a little fighter she was and I’m proud of myself for making incredibly tough decisions that were in her best interest, as any mother would.

I don’t include Cecilia in my answer expecting sympathy or trying to make the asker uncomfortable, yet those are the responses it seems to invoke. They wind up mumbling something like “I’m sorry…” or “you poor thing…” and I find myself stammering and apologizing for … for what… for acknowledging my own baby’s existence? I hate that. But I hate making people uncomfortable. But I also hate the idea of ignoring Cecilia. Maybe I’m overanalyzing what should be a simple superficial social situation. But to any mother who has lost a child, especially a child she has held and dressed and rocked, it’s WAY more important than that. And after some time and some healing, we don’t mention our babies entirely with sadness. We mention them because… well, because they’re our babies. I find myself saying things like “don’t be sorry – I’m ok…” because it’s true. I am ok. And I’m ok in part because I haven’t pushed Cecilia’s life and memory into some dark closet and thrown away the key.

A friend said of my quandary “well, how would you WANT them to respond?” I want to be able to name my daughter, to validate her life and her place in our family, and to have people view that as a positive, healing thing. A simple “oh, so this is your second child- how wonderful!” or something along those lines would be perfect. I know it’s not the easiest sunshiniest (patent pending on that word…) of situations, but it’s as simple as this- let my daughter be my daughter in the light of day and public discourse. By simply letting me count her among my children without feeling so incredibly awkward and without living mired in past grief, you have done the heart of a mother a huge service. Births are normally happy, wonderful events. All the world loves a pregnant lady (except maybe if she has a married boyfriend…) but be prepared to acknowledge all children- because they all have their place in that pregnant lady’s heart.

Senator Craig and zone defense for babies...

2007-09-10T12:07:00.000-07:00

Seriously? I mean… really…? Let me see… your premise is that you are:
1. an English-speaking native-born citizen
2. college educated
3. a millionaire with easy access to the best counsel you can buy
4. and a FUCKING SENATOR

BUT…you suffered a “manifest injustice” despite the fact that you
1. waived your right to counsel
2. plead guilty BY MAIL weeks later
3. and voluntarily never appeared before a judge

Craig apparently “wishes that he had sought legal council in the months between his arrest and entering his guilty plea.”

Yeah. In the words of that modern-day-philosopher, Justin Timberlake, cry me a river.

I wish I had never used a credit card for crap I didn’t really need. I wish I hadn’t been going 86 in a 60 when that state trooper saw me. I wish I had sought counsel from a personal trainer before getting pregnant 15 pounds over weight.

But you know what else?
I know how credit debt works and how difficult it is to pay off.
I know what “speed limit” means and what will happen if I get caught speeding.
I know the risks and perils of carrying extra weight and I know how to lose it and I have access to freakin’ Weight Watchers.

Point? We humans do stupid shit. And we get caught doing stupid shit. And if we are Americans who are reasonably well-educated , not destitute and English is our primary language and we have a working knowledge of the institutions of our country, WE DO NOT GET TO CALL A DO-OVER just because the press got wind of what we did.

Here is a man with every advantage and all the information. Here is a man knew damn full good and well what his rights were and the realities of how the justice system works. (At least he should have- if he didn’t, then he shouldn’t be a freakin’ LAWMAKER in the first damn place!) Here is a man who had class and native language and time and resources on his side. With all that, I’m sorry, you knew full and well what “guilty” meant. GUILTY means you admit to the wrongdoing. Don’t want to admit that? But don’t think you can win against the big bad justice system? (The system you have manipulated to be biased against everyone except you and your white wealthy allegedly-hetero brethren?) That’s what “no contest” is for, buddy.

So please…go ahead and tell me the detective “misconstrued” your actions in the men’s room. Insist to me that you are not gay. But do not for a single minute tell me you didn’t understand or couldn’t have gotten full counsel before making this guilty plea. Was the plea a mistake? From the perspective of your political career, you betcha it was. But you gambled and lost. The game was as fair as it gets for you, Senator Craig.

Oh, and just come on out already.

And now for a funny interlude:

Husband: I can’t wait for next college football season! I’ll have Vivi in her little Clemson onesie and I can teach her all the ins and outs of (blah, blah, blah…names of strategies here…)

Me: You realize teaching her all that is only going to one day make her MORE attractive to teenage boys?

Husband: And then there’s karate class…

Me: For her or you?

Husband: Both... And Daddy may need a lifetime pass to the firing range for Christmas...

Scenes from an Ultrasound

2007-08-22T11:09:00.000-07:00

Ultrasound Tech: “She is just NOT going to hold still and let me get a profile picture.”
That’s my girl!

Tech Again: “Woah…little thunder thighs on this one!”
That’s DEFINITELY my girl!

Blogosphere, Vivi Mae would like to wave hello. See her "fingeras" as the ultrasound tech labeled them?

20 week anatomy scan went very well. She has a small chorioplexus cyst in the right side of her brain, but we’re told that A) they’re very common and normally resolve by 28 weeks and B) we already know she doesn’t have Down’s Syndrome, so it’s really nothing to worry about at all. She flipped and waved and kicked and generally put on a show for her grandparents. Her Daddy and I got weepy, as usual. I’m about a week past the time in the pregnancy when I delivered Cecilia. I guess that makes me the most pregnant I’ve ever been. Cecilia was so small that I didn’t feel a lot of what I’m feeling now. It’s amazing how different this pregnancy has been. And hey- bonus! My cervix is nice and long and closed up tight. After the damage from Cecilia's delivery, that was a huge relief.

Mom & Dad were here for the weekend and I got an early birthday present. ALL HAIL THE SNOOGLI PREGNANCY PILLOW! If I could bend over comfortably, I would have kissed my Mom's feet for this one... I wonder if Husband would consider changing her name to Snoogli Mae?

In other non-baby-related news....
I hope Michael Vick winds up in a cell with a 400 lb. sociopath who was recently recruited by a PETA jailhouse program. That bastard deserves to have a set of jumper cables attached to his balls... and the other end attached to a Mack truck. If the NFL doesn't hit him with a lifetime ban, I will personally burn every piece of franchised logo-bearing clothing in a three-state radius. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting.

Anyone seen "The Pick-Up Artist" on VH1? I do not understand this show. I do not understand this "Mystery" guy. Well, wait... that's not right. I do not understand why in the hell so many women seem ready to drop their panties for this guy. Uh... let's see... you're an obviously 30-something guy who wears more eyeliner than I do and you call yourself Mystery.....yeah, you just REEK of relationship potential. I don't even understand wanting to sleep with him- he looks weasely and unemployed. Not exactly the type I'd trust put any part of his in any part of mine. Maybe that's a sign I'm getting old. I just want to call him Harold and tell him to cut his hair and get a legitimate job. What's worse is how he's teaching these poor regular guys all his "techniques". They seemed like pretty good fellas to begin with. And do they really want the kind of women who respond to Mystery's crap? Vapid is as vapid does, I suppose. Yeah, I'm old.

Inflammatory Breast Cancer

2007-08-13T09:22:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I had no idea what IBC was, much less that it was about to affect a woman whose writing I have enjoyed for some time now. And then I heard. And then all I could think about was how Widget and Little Bear are fighting to keep their Mommy... and they don't even know it. Her blog is here:
http://toddlerplanet.wordpress.com/
But today I repost her July 23 entry on IBC. I repost in her honor- hoping that by participating in her campaign to raise awareness, I may prevent another Mom, another sister, another friend from going through this ordeal. And you can bet that thanks to this brave lady, I will not cavalierly chalk anything up to "normal" changes from pregnancy and breastfeeding.

From Toddler Planet, July 23, 2007
We hear a lot about breast cancer these days. One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetimes, and there are millions living with it in the U.S. today alone. But did you know that there is more than one type of breast cancer?
I didn’t. I thought that breast cancer was all the same. I figured that if I did my monthly breast self-exams, and found no lump, I’d be fine.
Oops. It turns out that you don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer. Six weeks ago, I went to my OB/GYN because my breast felt funny. It was red, hot, inflamed, and the skin looked…funny. But there was no lump, so I wasn’t worried. I should have been. After a round of antibiotics didn’t clear up the inflammation, my doctor sent me to a breast specialist and did a skin punch biopsy. That test showed that I have inflammatory breast cancer, a very aggressive cancer that can be deadly.
Inflammatory breast cancer is often misdiagnosed as mastitis because many doctors have never seen it before and consider it rare. “Rare” or not, there are over 100,000 women in the U.S. with this cancer right now; only half will survive five years. Please call your OB/GYN if you experience several of the following symptoms in your breast, or any unusual changes: redness, rapid increase in size of one breast, persistent itching of breast or nipple, thickening of breast tissue, stabbing pain, soreness, swelling under the arm, dimpling or ridging (for example, when you take your bra off, the bra marks stay – for a while), flattening or retracting of the nipple, or a texture that looks or feels like an orange (called peau d’orange). Ask if your GYN is familiar with inflammatory breast cancer, and tell her that you’re concerned and want to come in to rule it out.
There is more than one kind of breast cancer. Inflammatory breast cancer is the most aggressive form of breast cancer out there, and early detection is critical. It’s not usually detected by mammogram. It does not usually present with a lump. It may be overlooked with all of the changes that our breasts undergo during the years when we’re pregnant and/or nursing our little ones. It’s important not to miss this one.
Inflammatory breast cancer is detected by women and their doctors who notice a change in one of their breasts. If you notice a change, call your doctor today. Tell her about it. Tell her that you have a friend with this disease, and it’s trying to kill her. Now you know what I wish I had known before six weeks ago.
You don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer

Mother, Whore, Warrior, Hero... Crazy Cat Lady

2007-08-10T12:27:00.000-07:00

Text Message from Baby Sister 8:56 p.m.
*throwing hand to forehead* no on is ever going to love me! I’m going to die a crazy cat lady!

Text Message Reply from Me 8:58 p.m.
What? You’re what? 26? Isn’t that a little early in life to start buying litter in bulk?

Baby Sister is reeling from a bit of an ugly breakup. She will be fine and her text message was sent mostly in melodramatic jest. (Hence my smart-ass reply… I would never have done that if I thought she was serious.)

I called her not long after this and we embarked on a lengthy discussion about the archetypal Crazy Cat Lady. We decided we need to commission an anthropological study of the phenomena. How exactly did the ownership of excessive numbers of cats become tied to older, unmarried women with varying degrees of mental illness? Why cats? Why not mice or hamsters or something squirrely… like squirrels? When did it begin? Were there Biblical crazy cat women? Were those the widows in the streets the Old Testament spoke of? And how many cats does one need to qualify? 10? 20? More? I’m thinking of pitching this to the History channel as a documentary- “Lonely Lunacy: The Legacy of Crazy Cat Women”.

We’ve already unraveled one piece of the puzzle. The crazy cat woman is a cross-cultural persona. Apparently Russia’s got ‘em too. (Warning: the video in that link will scare the shit out of you in a very Hitchcock kind of way.)

But my sister will not be one of them. I won’t let that happen. I figure once she gets more than 10 or so, she won’t notice if I smuggle out a couple each visit.

Of musicals, heat waves, and Scott Baio...

2007-08-09T06:40:00.000-07:00

As previously documented, Husband’s migraine prevention drugs have the charming side-effect of making him have really ….uh…. groovy dreams. He seems to have a propensity for musicals. Yes, musicals. I don’t know why, as he is a) not a huge musicals fan in his waking life and b) decidedly heterosexual.
But musicals it is. And last night he reported to me that Lola Vader apparently had her very own Rogers-and-Hammerstein-esque extravaganza. It involved:

a row of high-kicking Lola Vader’s in pink helmets and capes
an elaborate, lengthy rendition of his Lola Vader song
and… wait for it…
SCOTT BAIO.

Now don’t go all conspiracy-theorist on me… just because a man has a dream in which Scott Baio figures prominently doesn’t mean he’s using me and this baby to do some hetero-posing. (Right??) No, really, it’s true. We had been watching Scott Baio is 45 and Single before we went to bed. And besides, Scott Baio was completely clothed in the dream. Or so I’m assuming…

I lay in bed the other night writing (in my head) a thought-provoking commentary on the ban of freebies from formula companies in NYC hospitals. And then things went positively ape-shit at work. So as soon as I have time to breathe, I’ll write that one out.

Speaking of breathing…easier to do when you’re not pregnant in A HUNDRED AND FIVE DEGREE HEAT! Yes, it was 105 here yesterday. I went home early. The dogs and I stripped down to our skivvies and laid around in the AC. And then I went out and got a quart of birthday cake flavor ice cream from Marble Slab. I did put clothes on first, but not before I called ahead to clarify that it was really necessary. Apparently that “no shirt, no shoes, no service” policy doesn’t have an exemption clause for pregnant persons in hellish heat waves. Fascists.

I have to go. This child is demanding food yet again. But first, let's document the great food inventory at 9:45 a.m.

1 bowl oatmeal, 1 cup cranberry juice, 1 serving diced pears, 1 Kashi granola bar.

Yes, that's breakfast and TWO SNACKS before 10 a.m. I am AWESOME!

Cue the Imperial March & hand me a maracca....

2007-08-06T11:51:00.000-07:00

Husband is a very funny guy- I think I’ve mentioned that before. He’s also one of the kindest people you’ll ever meet and you’d be hard pressed to get him to ever say anything intentionally hurtful or cruel. It’s just not his style, but irreverently humorous IS his style.

So you’ll understand why I was amused and not aggravated when he began responding to my requests for him to [insert random task here] with “Yes, Lord Vader.”

After a few months of this, I stopped him one day and said “Um… that’s LOURDES Vader, thank you very much… but you can call me Lola.”

So there you have it, I am Lola Vader. And now he’s making up songs like “Her name was Lo-la, she had a Death Star…”

I just hope I can get my light saber through airport security on my way to the Copa Cabana.

GIT IN MAH BELLY!

2007-08-01T09:43:00.000-07:00

It’s official. I’m hungry. And I’m not talking about polite ladies lunch “oh, my, yes… a finger sandwich would be lovely, but only half, please…” I’m talking about truck driver hungry. I’m talking linebacker in the off season hungry. I’m talking coworkers walking by and going “you’re eating AGAIN?” hungry. I eat and an hour later, my stomach is growling. Loudly.
PREGNANT HUNGRY- it ain’t for the faint of heart, folks.
Need proof?
Ladies and gentlemen, I present Exhibit A: What I’ve Eaten Today.
1 bowl of oatmeal
1 cup of cranberry pomegranate juice
1- 8 oz can of pineapple chunks (in juice, mind you!)
1 Kashi TLC peanut butter granola bar
1 single-serving container of steamed broccoli
1 Amy’s organic black bean burrito (so good!)
½ a snack bag of Cheetos
2 Hershey’s special dark miniatures

Oh, and the best part?
It’s 12:30.
Yeah- only HALFWAY THROUGH THE DAY.

Tremble in fear, mortals…

Preparing for Baby...just add water!

2007-07-30T11:54:00.000-07:00

And now, courtesy of Parents.com, a list of ways to “prepare for baby!” (*gag*) and my rebuttals.

First off, let me say that whoever wrote this list has clearly never been pregnant or lived with a pregnant woman. In fact, I’m pretty certain the author ascribes to the stork/cabbage patch theory. And they probably have a perfectly organized linen closet. (Ass.) But I digress… here we go…

1. Reduce Stress In Your Life- This is a lovely sentiment, but I’m afraid it flies in the face of the very fact that OH-MY-GOD-THERE’S-GOING-TO-BE-A-TINY-HELPLESS-HUMAN-HERE-FOR-WHOM-I-AM-ENTIRELY-RESPONSIBLE!!! If you have any idea the magnitude of the commitment you’ve undertaken, you SHOULD be stressed. Not to mention the fact that reducing stress is much easier when you aren’t pondering questions like:
What do you mean FMLA is unpaid?
The average cost of raising a baby is WHAT?
My vagina/cervix is going to get HOW BIG?
When do I stop puking and start glowing?
What the hell is a “boppy”?
Does training the dog to prop up a bottle count as adequate childcare?

2. Increase Your Social Support Network- Another lovely idea- and yet highly impractical for the pregnant person and partner. On a list of priorities topped by sleep and food, the pregnant woman places “increase social support network” right down there beside “learn the rules of Australian football.” When you fall asleep sometime right after Wheel of Fortune and long before any prime-time programming, you’re not likely to get invited to many a supper club. Your only hope is to befriend other pregnant women and their partners at the height of some sport’s playoffs so you can fall asleep together and the partners won’t care.

3. Begin Thinking About the Birth- Huh? Was I supposed to be thinking about ANYTHING ELSE? No, seriously… after the initial elation (or panic, depending on your circumstances) of finding out you’re pregnant passes, the very next thing you do is to start obsessing about giving birth. I know, the authors are speaking of the neatly typed double-spaced “birth plan”. As they said in Clueless… “WHAT-EV-ER.” Here’s the thing, birth is nothing but a series of messy, unpredictable, big ol’ fat unknown variables which normally render the “birth plan” little more than extra toilet paper (equally scratchy as the hospital variety, too). That scares the shittola out of most women which is why the first thought after “that IS a second line!” is usually “oh my GOD- this baby has to come OUT!” So if you have to actually instruct a woman to begin thinking about the birth, she’s either not pregnant yet or she’s so far in denial she will give birth in the bathroom at the prom and get back out on the dance floor. Is this one intended for these “partners” the article mentions? Because that would make sense. I wouldn’t want to think about birth if it didn’t involve my va-jay-jay either.

4. Take Care of Your Soul- Seriously? My soul? Now does that come before or after I take care of this freakin’ body of mine that has ceased to function normally? ‘Cause I bought some of those chicken soup books and so far they’ve been terrific ergonomic footrests to help with this low back pain. But my soul? Still the same black mar on the face of humanity it ever was. (Just ask the Republicans we know.) Should I have gotten that fixed before I got pregnant? I knew I was forgetting something…

5. Explore Your Expectations of Parenting with Your Partner- Now THIS is a suggestion I can get behind! It’s very important that expecting parents agree on the important issues. Like… exactly who is the baby daddy and discipline questions like to cage or not to cage. No, seriously…got to have a chat about those expectations. For instance, do you both consider getting 7-8 hours of sleep a night a reasonable expectation? If you do, consider psychopharmaceuticals and that you may be able to save money by buying in bulk. Does your partner expect that since you are breastfeeding, you will attend to the baby every time it cries at night? If he does that’s fine, but he should adjust his expectations to include you attaching the electric breast pump to his scrotum while he sleeps. See? Compromise!

We need a practical list of ways to prepare for baby. I’ll start it off… commenters, add on for me!

Rob a bank or implement plan for hostile takeover of Trump Enterprises.
Hire a cleaning service or drastically reduce your cleanliness standards.
Build conveyor belt from nursery straight to washing machine.
Learn to sleep standing up while rocking back and forth and bouncing lightly.

What else?

State of the Uterus- I mean Union... and a Meme

2007-07-16T09:11:00.000-07:00

Hi! Remember me? No? Sorry about that...

Here's the Reader's Digest version of things:
Went to the beach (Charleston- Isle of Palms) for half of July 4th week.
Came back and worked Thursday and Friday.
Went back to beach for weekend.
Came back to angry cat and pitiful dogs.
Hosted a management conference.
Spent the night in the ER with Husband mid-conference. (Migraine.)
Collapsed into coma this past weekend.

So much to update...

Had an OB appointment this morning. Miss Vivi (as her father is calling her) is doing fine. Mama has gained only 5.25 pounds despite... well, despite a lot of things. Our baby girl spent some quality time kicking the doppler thingie this morning and refusing to hold still long enough to get her heart rate counted. *Sniff* I'm so proud!

The lovely and talented Suburban Hostage has tagged me for a meme, so here you go. (A more profound post soon- I promise!)

What were you doing 10 years ago?
Let's see... July 1997... Working as an office manager for a construction company and preparing for January wedding to the ex. (One of those was a mistake... the job is still on my resume, so you do the math...)

What were you doing one year ago?
Going to Bro-in-Law's wedding at the beach in NC. Still hurting from the loss of our girl, but starting to see the light more days than not.

Five snacks you enjoy:
HA! Just five? I am pregnant, you know... I do not discriminate. Fine- just five...
1. Swedish fish
2. herbed goat cheese on club crackers
3. hummus & pita points
4. sweet sixteen powdered sugar donuts
5. chocolate milkshakes

Five songs you know all the words to:
Uh... lots of them. Lots and lots. To the point that I amaze even Husband... and this is a guy who knows all the words to "The Humpty Dance".

Five things you'd do if you were a millionaire:
1. Take care of my parents and in-laws.
2. Pay off baby sister's student loans, and other sisters' houses/cars
3. Travel. Extensively. With Nanny in tow.
4. Hire Stacy & Clinton to dress me.
5. Make a huge donation to my alma mater.

Five bad habits:
1. Leaving drawers open. (Dressers, kitchen, etc... such a safety hazard. Must remedy pre-baby.)
2. Chewing my nails to nothingness. Add "get weekly gel manicure fill-ins" to my millionaire list.
3. Huge. Piles. Of. Clothes. All over my bedroom. To be fair, 1/2 are Husband's. Still...
4. Talking on my phone while driving. (I do use my bluetooth now... that's better, right?)
5. Procrastinating. See, I even saved that for last on the list!

Five things I like doing:
Remember... PREGNANT.
1. Sleeping.
2. Eating.
3. Napping.
4. Snacking.
5. Cooking.

5 Things I'd never wear again:
1. Any scrunchie.
2. A band t-shirt.* (*Exceptions for around the house and doing yardwork. Band t-shirts in public after you're 30 just make you look a tad pathetic.)
3. Black or dark red lipstick. (It was right at the time... I swear!)
4. Velvet.
5. Plastic shoes. I was the only 30-something on Isle of Palms without Crocs this year and dammit, I won't give in. I know, they're practical and comfy at the beach... I just can't get ever the idea that they're basically yuppie jelly shoes.

5 of my favorite toys:
Toys I have, or toys I want? Hmm... we'll go with have.
1. My Treo.
2. My KitchenAid mixer.
3. My Wusthof santoku knife.
4. My Calphalon roasting pan. (See a theme yet?)
5. My little 2 cup Cuisinart food processor.

It doesn't get much better than this...

2007-06-26T11:16:00.000-07:00

The genetic counselor called.
The baby's screening came back perfectly normal.
It's a girl.
Her name is Vivian Mae.

Gratitude doesn't begin to describe it. Neither does joy.
For Husband, for this baby, for our families, for my life, for all of it... I am completely and overwhelmingly joyfully grateful.

I could not ask for more.

:)

Damn Husband with his stupid logic...

2007-06-22T08:54:00.000-07:00

Email to Husband:
I want her!!!
http://search.petfinder.com/petnote/displaypet.cgi?petid=8557550

Husband's Reply:
What are you doing on this unapproved website? Get back to work! ;)

Me:
Silly Husband!
I am not that easily diverted!
WANT. THAT. KITTY.
Dammit.

Husband:
Ummmm...Not trying to point out the obvious, but we are about to have another baby running around the house. Not to mention the cat and nearly 200 lbs of dog. We might already be at full capacity. Maybe.

Me:
Full capacity? I think not.
Besides, I am just trying to restore order and balance to our home. We have
two of us, we have two dogs, we plan to have two kids... we need TWO CATS.
See? Give it up- duality is ingrained in our Western way of thinking.
Resistance is futile.

Husband:
But we don't have two kids yet. You see MBM (that's my-baby-momma), this duality that you yearn for is a process. An ongoing transition. We can't expect to achieve it immediately. Be patient, Grasshopper. One day you will find the duality you seek.

I'm going to catch hell from someone for this...

2007-06-12T13:10:00.000-07:00

As a parent-to-be, I know it’s dangerous to say “I will NEVER (insert parental action here) to my kids!” Like “I will NEVER call the Wiggles a God-awful band of narcissistic merchandising whores in front of my kids!” Wait… that’s probably a poor example. I can’t even pretend I have any intention of honoring that one.
We’ve all heard parents proclaim their high ideals for handling the wee lil’ buggers- only to find later that the wicked realities of parenthood are undoing their good intentions. Live and learn and then give them the damn binkie.
But I am willing to put this declaration of parental policy on record with the Internet because we all know that’s about as good as telling God herself.
I.WILL. NEVER. PIERCE. MY. BABY’S. EARS.
Got that? Never. Ever. Not in a million bazillion years. What the hell kind of parent does that to a baby? Most of the mothers and fathers I know leave those first pediatrician’s visits in tears themselves after their little one cries and cries with every immunization. It’s agonizing to see their baby in pain, but you do what you have to do to prevent them from… oh, DYING. And yet some of those same parents will hop up on a chair in a boutique at the mall to inflict an even thicker needle in an even more sensitive part of the body on their kiddo FOR VANITY. And not even the kid’s own chosen expression of vanity- their own screwed up superficial bullshit need to make their already perfect child “cute”. Why this form of abuse (yes, I said it, abuse) is even legal, I do not know. I’m sorry, but punching holes in your child’s body with no anesthesia for no damn good reason is an awful thing to do. You have to squelch the urge to clobber that kid at playgroup who pinches them, but you’ll do this to them on purpose? For shits and giggles?
Pierce your own ears but leave that poor baby alone. She'll want to do it on her own soon enough anyway- then you can say "I told you so" when she cries. I know it's delayed gratification, but that should be enough to satisfy the Barbie-sadist parents, right?
Yeesh.

This wasn't in my Webster's.....

2007-06-07T06:59:00.000-07:00

My new favorite word:

“clitzpah”- meaning strength or bravery or daringness directly related to being female

Some folks in the feminist blogging world came up with this one. They got tired of people using “ballsy” for being nervy- and thereby implying that it was a male trait. Sure, women could be ballsy, but by tying the language to testicles, you create sexist language and give men theoretical ownership on the characteristic.

So another feminist blogger suggested “clitty” to replace ballsy. It’s fine, I suppose, but it doesn’t really roll off the tongue. (Insert crude jokes and imagery here.) And then a Jewish feminist suggested “clitzpah” as a feminista’s take on chutzpah.

I.love.it.

Wait for it....

2007-06-03T07:13:00.000-07:00

I am at that point where I am pregnant enough that none of my regular clothes fit, but I don't necessarily need maternity clothes. But I am too cheap to buy an entirely new set of "in-between" clothes in a larger size. So I busted out the maternity jeans this week. True, wearing a belly panel this early in the game is a little depressing at moments, but I'm comfortable, dammit. And trust me when I say you need me in the best mood possible these days.

But the maternity jeans, they don't make a gal feel particularly sexy... but leave it to Husband... my "glass-half-full" guy....

*Sliding his hands down the back of the jeans*

Husband: Mmmm... maternity jeans.... easy access! All right!

Me: Leave it to you to find the sexy upside to MATERNITY JEANS.

*Pause*

Husband: This is going to wind up on your blog isn't it?

Me: Oh, totally. Yeah.

Husband *still groping in the jeans*: I figured.

Me: We're not having sex now.

Husband: I figured.

Hello? Social Services?

2007-05-31T13:55:00.000-07:00

We are truly nice people.
Just not very BRIGHT people.
There are some days when I am truly afeared for our poor child.
Case in point:

*As Husband and I are settling into bed…*

Me: Hey, I think that bag of jelly beans is on the counter. It’s rolled up and at the back of the counter… but do you think we should go down and move it? What if Bleu wants a snack?

Husband: Hmm….nah, I don’t think they’ll mess with it.

Me: *half asleep already* Yeah… and worst case, they’ll just poo in technicolor for a day or two.

Husband: Exactly.

*Next morning- Husband has gone downstairs*

Husband: *calling upstairs* Hey Honey….. remember how I told you they wouldn’t mess with those jelly beans?

Me: Were you wrong?

Husband: No…I was right… they didn’t mess with the jelly beans…

Me: Crap. What DID they mess with?

Husband: Nothing… just that ENTIRE BAG OF DOG TREATS we left out too…

See? Told you. Not that bright. But oh-so attractive. And humble.

We're auditioning for foster parents. For the dogs AND the kid. If you think you can keep them reasonably clean and not let the kid have an entire bag of sugar donuts at 11 p.m.- please call. You're already ahead of us.

Hey, anybody know how to construct a safe crib from a Dell computer box?

Of Dogs, Donuts, & Parental Paranoia

2007-05-22T12:03:00.000-07:00

As documented in my masthead, one of my great guilty pleasures in this world is a bag of those little sweet sixteen powdered sugar donuts. (They can’t really be called doughnuts- they’re donuts.) I love them. I do not share them. Husband made a special early Sunday morning trip to Publix for them just to cease my progesterone-induced bitching.
As documented at the end of this post, we have also learned that our newest doggie can and will help himself to things on the kitchen counter.
Do you see where this might be going?
I came downstairs around 11:00 last night (long story- got tired of listening to Husband’s stomach growl). In the half-light, I caught a glimpse of some kind of debris on the kitchen floor. Pushing past my ogres- er… dogs, I turned on the light.
Scattered far and wide across the linoleum were… PIECES OF THE SWEET SIXTEEN DONUT BAG! *GASP*
And nary a donut to be had. Not one scrap. My 80-some-odd-pound monsters had consumed every last bit. There wasn’t even any powdered sugar on the floor. (Daisy did have a touch on her snoot- tres cute!) There they sat, all waggy tails and happy faces. (I mean, of course they were happy. I’d be happy too if I’d happened upon HALF A BAG OF SWEET SIXTEEN DONUTS at 11:00! )
Let us please note that the beasts could have partaken of a number of other human foodstuffs on the counter including club crackers, raw potatoes, spinach wraps, and chai green tea. Those items were untouched, pristine in their wrappers without so much as a slobber spot.
The damn dogs have good taste.
Dorks.
I called Husband downstairs- we had a little laugh and a shake of our heads while we cleaned up the carnage. We wondered if the pups would eat breakfast in the morning. And we went to bed.
Fast forward to five-thirty this morning. I sat bolt upright in the bed and said to Husband
“I just had a thought.”
Husband (drooling & half-asleep): Whaa….?
Me: OMG, I hope they didn’t eat the little flexy-metal thing that holds the bag closed!
Husband: Who…? Ate wha…? The 18 year… on the rocks, please…
Me (getting out of bed): That thing! On the donut bag! It’s METAL! It could perf their intestines! I didn’t see it last night- did you see it? I have to go check! Is that magnet with the emergency vet number still on the fridge? Maybe it was under their beds- I didn’t check there. You don’t think they’d eat it, right? Can well call your Mom this early?
Husband (following me): *mutter* might as well get my ass up…. *grumble* alarm goes off in 15 minutes…. *mutter mutter* damn dogs … *grumble grumble*… f____ing tired…
And there, in the trash, still attached to the top of the bag, was the metal flexy thing that holds the bag shut.
Damn dogs. Good thing they're so cute.
We are SO ready to be parents.

Tinky Winky say "Buh-Bye!"

2007-05-21T13:53:00.003-07:00

Oh, Jerry, Jerry, Jerry….
I will never rejoice in someone else’s death. It’s unkind and mean-spirited, things I endeavor not to be. Besides, no matter how awful of a hypocritical hate-mongering self-righteous piece of shit you were, you were somebody’s Uncle/Daddy/Grandpa hypocritical hate-mongering self-righteous piece of shit. Those folks are hurting because you’re gone. I don’t like to see anyone hurt… even right wing freaks. (Well, maybe a little...)
And while I won’t rejoice in Falwell’s death, there is a little part of me that’s wondering how the trip to the other side went for ol’ Jer. I imagine it went something like this:

St. Peter: Welcome to the afterlife! What was your name in creation?

Falwell: Why, you should know me! I’m Reverend Jerry Falwell! And I am here to live eternally in the grace and glory of the Lord! I have done his work on Earth- I fought the gays and the feminists and the Teletub-

St. Peter: Right. Right. Falwell, you said?

Falwell: Yes, REVEREND Falwell. Will I be fitted for wings right away? ‘Cause I brought a nice gilded set that Pat Robertson gave me…

St. Peter: Uh… not exactly. Reverend, would you do me a favor? Just stand by these elevators right here- the ones with all “down” buttons.

Falwell: Down buttons? You’re sending me back? Is this a near-death experience? That’s perfect! Think of the testimony!

St. Peter: You might want to leave that suit here- wool is probably not your best choice of fabrics.

Falwell: Well, fine. I’m normally opposed to nudity of any kind, but I understand. I shall re-enter the world as I first came into it… stripped bare, a perfect and innocent creation, washed clean by faith!

St. Peter: Is that tie flame-retardant?

Falwell: What?

St. Peter: How 'bout the toupee? Will that melt?

Falwell: Melt? Wha- I don't... surely....

St. Peter: Any sulfur allergies?

Falwell: Shit.

St. Peter: Yeah…

Mothers' Day

2007-05-14T10:52:00.000-07:00

A woman I know, a very kind, wonderful woman, recently married late in life and was eager to start a family. This lady was very thoughtful in how she approached me after Cecilia’s birth. She was heartbroken for me, for Husband.
Last week, the docs told this good woman she is going through menopause. Her children will not be born of her body. Her age (and her husband’s age) mean she faces a long road to adopting.
I have been through loss, but not the kind of loss she is facing. I know what it is to have nature break your heart, but I do not know what it is to have your hope taken from you. Even at the bottom of our grief, we had “the next time” to look forward to. We knew another child would never replace Cecilia, but at least we could expect there would be another child.
When you start to seek support for pregnancy loss, you inevitably find yourself among people for whom loss and infertility are, unfortunately, a way of life. I took their stories and their frustrations to heart, hoping to learn something and become a better friend, a better person. I wish I could thank all of them today, because I think I may have done right by this nice lady.

I DID NOT do any of the following:
I didn’t say “oh, it’s ok- you can just adopt!”
I didn’t tell her the miracle story of some friend-of-a-roomate’s-relative who conceived against all odds.
I didn’t tell her it was “God’s will” and she should just trust in that.
I didn’t tell her I knew how she felt.

I DID do these things:
I gave her a huge hug.
I told her I was sorry.
I acknowledged her loss, and that she’d need to grieve.
I offered my office as a refuge if she needed to escape the cube farm for a good cry.
I gave her another huge hug.

And then I went home that night and hugged Husband. And we took a moment to realize that even after all that happened with our first pregnancy, we are truly fortunate. Our memories of Cecilia will always be bittersweet and she will always be in our hearts. But she will not be the end of our family- she will not be our only child. Hope and Cecilia’s sibling are growing inside of me.

Happy Mothers Day to all the women who are mothers in their hearts even when nature has other ideas for their bodies. May the world treat you with the same respect and kindness we afford all mothers on this day- and perhaps with a little more for your journey.

A Funny Thing Happened When I Peed on a Stick

2007-05-03T08:38:00.001-07:00

Some of the people who read my blog love me dearly and care about the most intimate details of my life. Some of them do not- they’re here for the witty commentary (shut up- this is my world!) and random rants.

The first lesson of corporate training is KNOW YOUR AUDIENCE! (The second is check your fly.) So this blog shall remain my usual fragmented diatribes.

But you should know that I am pregnant. Let’s pause for some answers to the obvious questions:
Yes, me. Pregnant.
Yes, the state plans to let me keep the child.
No, I will not name it after you or your company.
Yes, it’s Husband’s baby.
No, I will not post video of the conception.

Ahem. As I was saying, I’m going to try to keep most of the pregnancy updates off this page, except for the occasional rant about how the world inconveniences pregnant women. Those are fair game for their general subject matter. But the details, the cutesy crap, will go on here:
http://babybonk.blogspot.com/
Family and friends, this is your spot for regular updates, ultrasound pictures, and other baby-related information.

But let me know offer my deepest and most humble apologies for not updating LL&VT more often. See, I’m pregnant and I’m sick and my Mom reads this from time to time which renders most of the language I would use to describe the world right now off limits.

But I will say this.
To the f***stick asswipe guy who took my parking space at jury duty yesterday:
I hope you get a rotten case of the crabs from a hooker who turns out to have a d*** and you go to a doctor who accidentally gives you laxatives instead of the antibiotic and you get stuck in horrendous traffic no where near an exit driving a RENTAL CAR and then you have to explain the bill for the cleanup to your demure and pure Christian wife who sends you to a dry rehab facility for sex addicts where you run into your MOTHER!

Asshole.

See? Fragmented diatribes. Business as usual.

Weirdo Wednesday

2007-04-19T11:14:00.001-07:00

Weirdo Wednesday Moment #1:

Sitting next to me in the dermatologist’s office waiting room was a well-coiffed, perfectly made up elderly Southern woman. Think grand dame of the Junior League… probably has a house on Pawley’s Island and makes a mean mint julep before services at one of the many first baptist churches.
Anywho… they called this lady’s name and she replied with “Just one minute, darlin’, I’ve got to visit the powder room.” (Yes, powder room.) With that, our heroine stood up slowly and clacked across the waiting room with her walker.
And moseyed her refined old lady behind right into the MEN’S BATHROOM.
My first thought, of course, was gee, I hope nobody’s in there because I’m pretty sure it’s bad form to laugh your ass off at an old lady in public. Well, that and I didn’t want her to have a heart attack. ‘Cause I’m CPR certified and I’d have felt compelled to help and I was wearing a skirt and I didn’t want anyone to see my drawers while I was trying to do chest compressions. (Yes, Mom, I was wearing drawers. Clean ones.)
But apparently no one was in there. So in my continued quest to preserve my modesty (yes, Mom, I DO HAVE SOME), I stood outside the door and diverted two men who sought out the facilities while Grandma was still inside.
Our Lady of the Mint Juleps emerged a little later, and apparently hadn’t noticed her faux pas. She told the nurses “All right, ladies, I’m ready now.” And off she went through the waiting room doors to the dermatology inner sanctum.
At this point, the receptionist said quietly “I guess the urinal on the wall didn’t clue her in…” And I collapsed laughing.
Extra points to my Mom, who upon hearing this story said “You don’t know… maybe she went in there on purpose… you know…. trying to catch a little peek?”
And if she did, I say more power to her.

Weirdo Wednesday Moment #2:

I’m one of those weirdos who looks at someone’s purchases and spends a few moments analyzing/judging the person in front of me. (Shut up. You know you totally do it too.)
Last night there was young black man dressed in a construction company uniform in line in front of me. He bought this:
A whole fresh pineapple
A bottle of mineral oil
A toilet brush

Three words:
DON’T. WANNA. KNOW.

I'm not dead yet! (But the parrot is!)

2007-04-18T10:00:00.000-07:00

Before I even start, let me say this.
Virginia Tech Faculty, Staff, Parents, & Students: I am so sorry. I cannot even imagine..
To the parents of Cho Seung-hui: I am so sorry. You’re in your own hell, I’m sure.

Blog? What blog? OH! THIS blog! Contrary to my ex’s wet dreams, I did not slide under a gas truck and taste my own blood. I am alive and well… just have been horrifically busy.
My middle sister done got herself hitched up over the weekend. I’ll regale you with the details later. For now, we will just say that it was like all the other family weddings: loud, happy, hug-laden fun. But since that post will require far more time and brain cells than I have available right now, I give you…
Ranting about random shit! With your brilliant and (might I add) TOTALLY hot host, ME!

From the “we told you so, you crazy right-wingers” file…
http://www.cnn.com/2007/EDUCATION/04/13/abstinence.study.ap/index.html
So, let’s see… you gave the government $175 million to tell kids “Don’t have sex of any kind until you’re married… because it’s morally correct… and we said so… trust us!” And then it required a government-funded study to establish that this methodology didn’t work? I tell you what… you could have spent $3.75 on a venti latte and obtained the same information from any semi-realistic parent of a teenager. Know what figures I’d like to see? The total amount that will be shelled out to deal with the unwanted pregnancies and STIs of these undereducated kids. My favorite part is the leader of the Abstinence Education Group discounting the study because it was done when the programs were “in their infancy”. (Does anyone else find that expression funny here?) Anyone ever won a game with a kid only to hear “but… but…. I wasn’t ready!”

People, when will we let go of our Puritanical discomfort and start TALKING ABOUT SEX with kids? And I mean really talking about it, not just lecturing on an antiquated model like abstinence and then only wanting to think or hear about the “right” answers (the ones we’re comfortable with) from our kids. When I am Empress of the Universe, we will hand out birth control pills and condoms with locker combinations. We will start in 5th and 6th grade teaching that masturbation is a healthy and age-appropriate form of sexual expression. We will gift every 14 year-old girl with a vibrator. (Seriously! How much fun will the fumblings of a 14 y.o. boy seem like if she’s spent time with the Rabbit Pearl?) Better yet, I’ll just hire the folks at Good Vibes to run the whole shebang. (HA! Shebang… LOL) They know more than I do. Then we’ll raise kids who have some degree of knowledge about their bodies and the human reproductive system, which means they will be far less likely to get pregnant or diseased. OH, and then guess what else? They also won’t come up thinking sex is dirty and bad and related to hellfire, so maybe they’ll TALK TO THEIR OWN KIDS ABOUT SEX. We are not just laying the groundwork for these kids lives, but for their children as well. Clearly cramming the moral agenda down their throats isn’t working.

I think the epitome of all this prudish bullshit is the hysteria over Guardasil. Let me see, asshole-right-wing parents, you are willing to risk your daughter’s LIFE because you don’t want to have a short, highly clinical conversation about HPV? How incredibly f***ed up do you have to be to refuse something that may prevent your child from DYING just to avoid entertaining the notion that your child may one day have sex? And people, we’re not even talking about having to acknowledge premarital sex! Your baby girl may preserve herself in sweet holy chastity until her wedding day and STILL wind up with HPV thanks to an undereducated or philandering husband or (God forbid) a sexual assault. I’m sorry, but parents who argue against making this vaccine part of the immunization cycle because it might “encourage” sexual activity are squeamish, selfish, prudish, ignorant assholes. (And they’re TOTALLY asking for their kid to join a live sex show in Amsterdam, might I add…) This is not about what it might “enourage”, but about conversations and concessions these people can’t handle. Their comfort level does not trump their child’s right to health. Your child will one day be a sexual being. And that includes risks. You have an opportunity to eliminate one of those risks for them. What the hell kind of parent objects to that?

All right… new rant. This one containing absolutely no brand-specific vibrator references whatsoever. (Oh thank God, sayeth my father!)

I work in corporate training. I like teaching/training people. I enjoy it, I truly do.

I hate teaching people to teach.

It’s called “train-the-trainer” in our professional circles and frankly, it sucks. There are several reasons I do not like doing this:
1. The trainers you are trying to teach usually believe that training is stupidly easy and anyone of their lofty intelligence can do it instinctively sans preparation. (Hello? And you pay me for what? My great lasagna recipe?) Seriously, most of them think that effective teaching requires no more than subject matter expertise and org-chart-sanctioned authority.
2. They never read the materials you give them. NEVER. I could insert several paragraphs describing my nefarious plan to destroy all the birds of Earth and to build a giant intergalactic gazebo over the planet blocking out the sun and then laugh maniacally as the smug gardening people cannot keep their precious plants alive… muah ha ha ha ha! You won’t be giving me fun little green thumb tips anymore, WILL YOU??? Stupid happy plant peop-… oh my… sorry. But really, I could put it all in there. They’d never notice.
3. Most people who want to provide training don’t have the personality to do it. You think this kind of sparkling effervescence and wit is handed out to everyone? Puh-lease. It’s a professional commodity- like J. Lo’s booty.

My latest endeavor involves training a few members of senior management to provide diversity training at the field offices. Oy. Motherf***ing. Vay. Several of them are excellent- they’ll facilitate beautifully and the program will be wonderful. Several of them will suck at it and will come back to complain that the program we selected wasn’t effective AT ALL. Unfortunately, most of the folks receiving the training won’t make the distinction beween crappy trainer/training correctly either. Whut-evah!

As my amazing Grandma likes to say, there’s no use arguing with the once-born.

Oh, and here's two fun facts courtesy of our new friend Bleu.
1. The time it takes for an 80-pound lab to reach and eat the 1/2 a pie you left on your kitchen counter is about 3 seconds less than the time it takes for you to make it down the stairs.
2. An 80-pound lab can consume up to 10 oz. of baking chocolate without serious health consequences, but 2 ounces in a pie is enough to make for a few nasty surprises in the backyard.

Ciao, dollies!

It's a Boy! Mazel Tov!

2007-04-09T09:14:00.000-07:00

2 soft-hearted doggy parents
+ 1 large dog-friendly SUV
+ 1 busy road
+ 1 dirty, hungry, but VERY sweet black lab
+ 1 visit to the vet for shots and a bath
=
A new happy family!

Everyone, meet Bleu, our newest addition to the House O’ Crazy!

Bleu, would you like to introduce yourself?

Hi, I’m Bleu! I’m a laid back sweet boy with good manners and a soft heart. I love to eat and to spend a nice warm summer day laying on the dec---- OH MY GOD! IS THAT A BALL??? BALL!!! BALL!!! THROW IT, PUH-LEEEEEEEASE!!!!!
Oh, sorry… it was just your empty hand. Coulda’ sworn it was a ball. Anywho… I’m Bleu and I’m two years old, give or take. I’ll be spending some time loping ‘round the back yard with my sister, Daisy. She’s a great friend… I sure do wish she’d quite trying to hump me, though… On the 19th, I’m going back to see the nice ladies at the vet to get “fixed”. I don’t know what needs to be fixed, but if it feels as good as that bath they gave me- TREAT!! THAT WAS A TREAT!!! PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE GIVE ME THE TREAT!!!
Oh, crap… sorry… your hand again.

*Ahem* I think that’s enough from Bleu right now. So we’re a family of five: us, Bleu, Daisy, and Bob. I’d love to have a family picture, but Bob is claiming conscientious objection. I don’t think she really knows what that means, but I’m not calling her bluff because somebody keeps leaving my dictionary of pop culture out…

The Progesterone Prayer

2007-04-02T09:45:00.000-07:00

Dear Lord Baby Jesus:

I am trying hard to follow your teachings- to treat all of your children with the same love and compassion you would have shown them and to banish hatred and anger from my heart.

But Lord… verily, I say unto thee… I could use a little help. How about starting up a gal’s period before one of your dumber children meets with a bloody, untimely end?

Your humble, but very bloated, servant,

ME

Announcing the first Pink Velour Cake Award!

2007-03-29T08:34:00.000-07:00

Life, Liberty, & Vodka Tonics is proud to introduce a new semi-regular feature:

The Pink Velour Cake Award!

Long-time readers will recall my attempts at making red velvet cake, which resulted in the affectionately nicknamed pink velour cake.

Exhibit A: Crap on a Cake Plate

And so, dear friends, LL&VT will now be awarding the Pink Velour Cake Award for excellence in culinary disaster!

This week’s recipient is my sister’s friend and coworker, Liz, for her amazing expanding meatloaf. Behold…

What’s that you ask? How can something as simple as meatloaf go so horribly wrong?

As I understand it, the meatloaf had a sort of allergic reaction to the topping- swelling up like spray insulation. It seems this particular meatloaf recipe involves Grape Nuts cereal and those little nuggets can expand mighty fast. Do you remember those little capsules we got as kids- you’d drop them into hot water and ten minutes later have a dinosaur shaped sponge? Kind of like that, only apparently quite delicious. (Which I totally believe… because the recipe has THREE POUNDS OF MEAT in it- how can that NOT be scrumptious???)

Anywho- mazel tov, Liz! You are our very first Pink Velour Cake Award winner!

Want to nominate yourself or someone you know for a Pink Velour Cake Award? Just send an email describing the dish, what went wrong, any hilarioius hijinks associated with the creation of the dish, and (preferably) a photo of the disaster in jpeg format. Send submissions to lifelibertyandvodkatonics@yahoo.com. LL&VT reserves the right to reject entries that are boring, sucky, or appear to have been sent by Republicans.

**LL&VT would like to remind you that this award does not come with any cash value, prizes, or any other redeeming qualities. The Pink Velour Cake Award is not suitable for résumés. LL&VT is not liable for any injuries or damages incurred while celebrating this award with alcohol consumption.

NSB 1967-2007

2007-03-22T14:48:00.000-07:00

I’ve sort of been at a loss for what to say here lately.
A woman I worked with reasonably closely was laid off Friday before last.
She died of a heart attack the following Wednesday.
She had three children.
She was 39.

Her death has really thrown me for a loop, which I find surprising. She and I didn’t socialize outside of work and we weren’t terribly close. But there was a kind of kinship between us- we were the loud, outspoken, ballsy broads who tangled with V.D. on a regular basis. She was my partner in bitchy crime. Only she was braver than I was and less concerned with being polite. I never saw her intimidated by anyone. Her abject refusal to give a flying f*** what anyone thought about her might have lost her some professional respect on occasion, but she was unapologetically honest and never tolerated someone trying to disrespect her. She called a spade a f***ing spade. Sure, she was extreme and probably needed to tone it down and “play the game” a bit. But she didn’t. And she didn’t care. And it was what I admired about her most. Being around her made me stronger and more sure of myself. She was an enabler for my inner bitch, God bless her. I’m finding it hard to believe that someone who was not only so young, but such a force, such a powerful person, is now gone.

I should mention, too, that she was absolutely irreverently hilarious. And passionately committed to her kids. That was the thing about her- she was tough and blunt and forceful. But she also had a heart of gold and would fight things that weren’t right in a skinny minute. And then she’d come into my office and we’d have a good laugh about it all. I will miss her laugh and her passion. I will miss how brave I was around her.

I think the best way I can honor her is to be that brave ballsy woman more often. And so I will. For her, you know. You can’t disrespect the dead.

So vaya con dios, my strong woman friend. I am a better person for having worked with you. Give ‘em hell up there.

A Death in the Family

2007-03-13T13:28:00.000-07:00

This afternoon, a great tragedy has befallen our little household.

the PS2 has gone to the great GameStop in the sky... *SNIFF*

A moment of silence, please.

Husband is distraught, seeing as he resigned from his old job yesterday and they declined his offer to work a notice. So he has a full week to kill before the new job begins. A full WEEK. With NO PS2! And a new Tiger Woods golf game! Oh, the humanity!

In other news, the updates have been slow because I am fighting off the plague. The so-called medical professionals say it's bronchitis, but my money's on the black death. Or in my case, the yellowy-green death, since that's the color of the stuff I've been hacking up. (You're hot for me now, aren't you?) I went to the doc on Monday convinced I just really needed something stronger than Claritin for my allergies, but the kind nurse quickly informed me that allergies don't generally come with a 101.2 degree fever. Huh... go figure. Note to self: next time you hack up your pancreas, take your temperature and get to the doc sooner.

Wild and sort of scary times at work. The W reign of terror has caused money troubles for Medicare and it's contractors. Jobs have been lost and in the end, crooks will take your Medicare trust fund dollars. So way to go, guys! And did you see this business with Gonzales and the US attorneys? Seriously... would someone please just blow W so we can end this already???

God is good! (And pissed at Ann Coulter.)

2007-03-06T09:10:00.000-08:00

Dear Lord,
I know it is wrong to rejoice in other people’s troubles. I know I should not feel good when someone I do not like falls upon difficult times. In my heart, I know it is wrong to enjoy the slow demise of someone’s career, even when they bring it upon themselves with their own hatefulness and ignorance. So, Lord, please forgive that little happy dance in my bathrobe this morning when one of the newscasters opened with “conservatives are distancing themselves from Ann Coulter…”. And please know that I am trying hard to be repentant for hollering “take that, beeyatch!” when I saw this.

It is because of her hatefulness and ignorance, Lord, that I cannot help but think that perhaps you, in your infinite wisdom, are smiting Ann Coulter. I realize that it is not my place to judge her, Lord, but is it wrong for me to agree when you do? If thou hast seen fit to punish Ann Coulter by depriving her of the right-wing approval she so craves, then what can I do but rejoice knowing that you are just and fair? Surely, in thine eyes, my faith in your judgment of the wicked outweighs my smug sense of vengeance.

If you are smiting Ann Coulter, Lord, then yea, truly and verily, I say unto you, WAY TO KICK SOME MORTAL ASS! And please don’t smite me for thinking so. I promise, I really am trying to be contrite about it.

Praise be to the kind and gracious God who gave us Jesus, Thin Mints, and Ann Taylor.
AMEN.

Meredith F***ing Viera, AGAIN.

2007-03-05T08:23:00.000-08:00

Dear God, I cannot stand that woman.

Meredith had a serious news piece (*snort*) this morning on "hooking up". Seems some young woman has written a book about sex-only relationships and young women, etc. etc. The piece itself was garbage that seemed to be aimed at alarming parents of young girls, as usual.

They had some "expert" on with her as well who kept insisting that it was sooo troubling that love and relationships were being left out of this discussion. You know, 'cause healthy grown women have to have those things- they couldn't possibly choose just to have some crazy mad screw for the hell of it . She also told us that hooking up is VERY different and much worse than the free love of her 60s generation because that had "love" in it and it was a "political statement". Uh-huh. Oh, I should mention that the so-called expert was wearing Melissa's boots and haircut, but she was about 70. Note to expert: the young hip subtlety sexy thing works on a 30-something hot mama. Kind of ridiculous on someone with AARP eligibility.

But I digress. My point was that Meredith's parting shot for the segment was to ask this hard-hitting journalistic tour de force:
"What about that old saying ... you know... why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?"
And then my brain exploded. No, seriously.... did she JUST SAY THAT? Did this supposed pro-woman news anchor just perpetuate a horribly sexist cliche comparing a woman to a FARM ANIMAL and implying a woman's value is diminished by lack of sexual purity???? You heard it from Meredith, gals- don't give it away or you won't land yourself a good man!

OH.MY.GOD.
I never thought I'd say this, but please, for the love of God, bring back Katie!!!!! For that matter, get ANYONE ELSE except this woman! How much longer will this kind of inane misogynistic bullshit be tolerated as actual journalism? Is she supposed to pull in that 20-30-something female demographic? 'Cause I'm betting comparing us to defiled cattle isn't the way to go.

Call me Ishmyelle...

2007-02-28T05:29:00.000-08:00

Husband and I have a running collection of stripper names. You know… names that inspire thoughts of mirrored walls and the perpetual smell of French vanilla. Seriously! You know it’s true- some kids have names that just instinctively suggest they will be paying their electric bill with singles. Here are some examples:
Destiny
Jade
Cheyenne
Rainn
Sierra
Shawna
Tristan

Other names that qualify are attempts at unique spellings of relatively normal names. They often start with a K rather than a C or they replace the Y on the end with EE, etc. etc. For instance:
Kamryn
Kristal
Destinee
Ebonee
Jewyl
Rayne

We were watching the “Birthday Board” on the local morning news today and there was a 1-year-old baby girl named… TAMRYN. I’m sure Little Tamryn will have hours of fun with the Fisher-Price “My First Pole”.

And behold! Once again, the great almighty Internet shall provide for all our needs!
A Quiz to Learn Your Secret Stripper Name

My secret stripper name? Gigi, apparently. Only I would spell it JiJi.

Comments are open- share your favorite stripper name, Blogites!

Forget the driver's license... ask to see her purse!

2007-02-26T09:46:00.000-08:00

Wild times at our house, Blogites; hence the lack of updates. I wish I could say they were the good bacchanalian kind of wild times with the wine and decadent food and crazy sex and whatnot. But no. Not so much. Think more along the lines of decaf coffee and grilled chicken and abstinence on account of narcotic pain relievers.

But at the end of it all, Husband seems to be feeling much better. He’s taking a drug called Topamax, which he has affectionately renamed Potamax for it’s groovy side effects. The drug seems to be preventing the headaches, so he’s working on adjusting to the foggy-headed feeling and his new affinity for Cheech & Chong movies.

Middle Sister called this weekend in the midst of a heart-wrenching dilemma I know all too well: the switch to the big purse. In our teens on through our mid to late 20s, women are willing to carry these minute little vessels that we pass off as purses, but are actually no larger than your average espresso cup. The limited storage capacity works just fine when all you really need to get by is some lip gloss, your cell phone, and a condom.

But there comes a point in every woman’s life when she finds that the cute little nightclub purses no longer cut it. The moment has been creeping up on you for years. Many women will even walk around with their Lillputian purses unzipped and bulging at the seams. Want to spot the woman over 25 in the group? Look for the itty-bitty purse with the car keys sticking out of the top because her gym and grocery store discount key ring cards won’t fit inside. (And lip gloss doesn’t hide the dark circles under her eyes.) Logic dictates a bigger bag, but vanity wins out for many many years. We are desperate to avoid our awful destiny: the mom purse.

I’ve decided that it’s really a sort of rite passage- the day you find you are less concerned with a teeny purse and more concerned with actually having room for all the shit you need to carry around. If you have ever looked at a little bag and thought “huh… that’s never gonna hold my calendar AND my mini-umbrella!,” well, my friend… your time has come. As I said to middle sister this weekend, come over to the dark side and get yourself a big ol’ tote bag! You will find that the pleasure you once took in looking hip with that little tic-tac-sized change purse has been replaced by the relief you feel at having your Clorox pen handy.

I myself have gone to the aforementioned gigantor tote bag a little early in life in part because I frequently carry snacks for hypoglycemic Husband. (Yeah… for Husband… that’s right… ) I also carry a wide array of over-the-counter remedies for my very persnickety tummy. One of my college girlfriends went to the big purse right out of college because she’s very short and wears heels to appointments… but she can’t drive her stick-shift car in them. And we all discovered that professional-woman hair and makeup requires a few more maintenance tools than just a rubber-band to hold back your locks should you consume too much Purple Jesus. (A note: if your hosts have mixed the PJ in the bathtub, they will be less than enthusiastic about letting you vomit in the toilet next to said tub.)

I’ve also noticed that the size of the purse is directly proportional to the number of people and the needs of the people for whom the woman feels responsible for caring. Some women simply give up a purse all together when their children are small and just toss their own stuff into the diaper bag. (Want to pick her out in the ladies room? Look for the woman brushing Cheerio dust out of her hairbrush.) I remember my Mom and older sister’s purses as veritable treasure chests of neato stuff. No matter what the delay or situation or complication, they were prepared. Mom always had Ziploc bags in her purse because of my propensity for vomiting when I was carsick/scared/upset/nervous/excited/getting blood drawn. (You get the point- I was a regular little Linda Blair.) My sister once produced half a barnyard’s worth of little plastic animals, a sippy cup, and a stuffed toucan from her purse to soothe her irritable toddler in a hospital waiting room right after she changed his diaper, washed his face, and medicated him with materials from the same bag. It was impressive.

I think it all boils down to the same reason you don’t see tons of older folks camping. There comes a point in your life when having access to the little conveniences and comforts contributes mightily to your disposition. In my 30s, my idea of “roughing it” has come to mean a hotel without an adequate spa. Similarly, I am now highly annoyed if I’m caught without Tums and my round boar bristle brush. When you’re no longer distressed if you don’t get carded, why not get a purse that holds more than your driver’s license?

Don’t get me wrong, I get a faint sense of nostalgia when I see a cute little hipster out with her bag the size of a walnut. But when those four-inch stiletto shoes she’s wearing give her a blister, it’s nice to know I can give her a Band-Aid.

These words don't even begin to cover it...

2007-02-20T09:27:00.000-08:00

http://www.cnn.com/2007/HEALTH/02/20/tiny.baby.ap/index.html

Wow. Just… wow.

This amazing gal, Amilia, was born at 21 weeks and 6 days gestation. My Cecilia was stillborn at 20 weeks and 5 days. Cecilia outweighed Amilia by four ounces.

The sight of her little newborn body makes me cry- it looks so eerily familiar in some ways. I feel oddly connected to her and my heart is full of joy and hope for her and her family. I know how it feels to hold a tiny, fragile body like hers and I am profoundly grateful that their experience is with a living child, however tiny and fragile.

Amilia is going home today, four months old and four and a half pounds.

Wow.

Lots of love and luck, sweet Amilia!
Cecilia’s Mommy.

The Medicated Husband: Fun for Everyone!

2007-02-19T12:45:00.000-08:00

Husband: These migraine prevention drugs are giving me really really bizarre dreams.

Me: Like what?

H: Last night I had one that was a Christmas musical.

M: A Christmas musical???

H: Yeah, you know… like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

M: Like the animated Burl Ives one?

H: Yeah, except the people I know were the characters and we were all singing this song… but I can’t exactly remember the words.

M: That’s probably best. Was I Herbie?

H: No, no… we were all ourselves… just with big giant heads on little tiny clay bodies.

M: Oh, dang. I was sure my Dad would have been Yukon Cornelius. And I was Herbie.

H: Nope. But you still had big boobies…. big lovely claymation boobies.

Marshmallow Blog: This one's full of fluff!

2007-02-17T13:44:00.000-08:00

Me: Holy Crap! The Today Show anchors are sampling some hot chocolate that costs TWENTY-NINE DOLLARS A POUND! That’d better be some good damn hot chocolate!

Husband: Where’s it from?

Me: Um… France, apparently.

Husband: Shit… the French should be GIVING us that hot chocolate… you know, since we liberated their asses…. TWICE.

Move over, John Bolton! Can you imagine the bi-partisan support Husband's nomination would get? He negotiates in CHOCOLATE, people!
Husband had a tough week. He’s had 5 major migraine headaches in 9 days. The worst one hit on Thursday and the poor guy wound up being injected with a lot of drugs and getting a CT scan. (Mercifully, the scan was clear.)
On Thursday night, he was climbing the stairs to bed and says in a weak voice with a Demerol-and-Imitirex-cocktail-induced slur:
“I shtill havea Ban-Aid on my ash….”
The offending (and apparently itchy) Band-Aid was removed and he lapsed into a coma.

In other totally fluffy brainless weekend blog fodder, it seems Britney Spears has shaved her head. I’m sure this anti-hairdo is part of some post-divorce self awakening in which she rejects her teeny bopper past and seeks to be taken seriously as an “artist”. (Haven’t you heard? She’s mounting a comeback.) Unfortunately for her, she’s not old enough to remember Sinead’s 15 minutes in the early 90s. This is going to end badly- watch for her to tear up a picture of Billy Graham on SNL.

Celebrity Denouncement Time! On behalf of all thinking women of the world, I hereby strip John Mayer of his hottie status until he ends this relationship with Jessica Simpson. We are disappointed in you John, but we know you are a 20-something boy newly awash in fame, so we will suspend final judgment in hopes that this is simply your requisite dating-a-string-of-unsuitable-bimbos phase. We don’t begrudge you dating a woman of commensurate hotness, but please find one that actually has talent and … oh… say… didn’t star as DAISY F***ING DUKE! To think that you might actually be that shallow- well, it’s a waste we can’t live with.

Warning: Bleeding Heart Propaganda

2007-02-09T07:17:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Stephanie over at Creature Bug for this:

FREE HUGS

Made me weepy at work on a Friday morning. Gratuitous displays of basic human kindness set to indie rock will do that to a gal.

"Wherever there is a human being there is an opportunity for kindness" -- Seneca

Meredith Viera: Still Stupid

2007-02-08T09:12:00.000-08:00

Oh, that wacky Meredith Viera is at again! Seems our little plan worked, Blogites, and the Today show got walloped with emails about the Momtini piece. A follow up segment appeared yesterday. They were quick to point out they got emails for AND against drinking on playdates. But it’s funny, they only read one con email and it was inarticulate and preachy. They also left out the emails like mine that called Meredith on the carpet for being an asswipe during the original interview- quelle surprise!

This segment was much better, though. Meredith and the “doctor” were much more balanced and they had a terrific smart-ass writer, Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, on. (You have GOT to love a woman whose book is titled Sippy Cups are Not for Chardonnay: And Other Things I Had to Learn as a New Mom!)

This is my favorite part of today’s “news” piece:
(On emails about the absence of comment on DADS drinking in front of kids…)
Meredith: "IS there a gender bias here?"
“Doctor”: "No, absolutely not."
WHA-WHA-WHAAAAAT???? Is anyone else disturbed by the fact that this supposed psychological professional clearly does not live in reality???

I also love the email they read about all the doomsday disastrous things that could happen to kids on playdates. Is the assumption that if mothers don't drink, they will be able to protect kids from all those things? Most of the kids I know have endured a few good solid falls or knocks to the head regardless of the vigilance of their parents. Besides, I can have WAY more than one glass of wine and still dial 9-1-1 with amazing accuracy. (Seriously- it has been tested and proven.)

If this argument goes to response time, what else are Mothers not supposed to do? I mean, really, are these women supposed to be hovering over their children at every second poised to spring into action just in case… CHILDHOOD HAPPENS? Next thing you know, reading Cosmo or typing an email while your kids play out back will be irresponsible mothering because, you know… they could fall or break an arm or join al-qaeda while you were selfishly directly elsewhere.

Folks, we all know kids whose Moms never socialized and devoted EVERY SINGLE SECOND of EVERY DAY to monitoring their children’s every move to the exclusion of their own health and happiness. Those kids do not turn out well. At best, they are inept adults frightened of the world and unable to function as normal adults. (We’ve all dated a guy whose Mom still picked out his clothes. At 35.) At worst, these kids wind up with the bodies of an entire family hidden in the deep freeze in the garage.

Ladies, relax. Have a little faith in yourself. Have a reality check. Have a drink. I promise, you’ll feel better.

Blizzard of '07

2007-02-02T07:42:00.000-08:00

Behold. A South Carolina blizzard.

For two glorious hours yesterday morning, big white fluffy flakes fell down upon us. And then came the sleety slushy crud. And then came the cold cold rain. And then I went to work. *SIGH*

All Wednesday night, our local forecasters told us that we would have no more than cold rain. Oh, they hinted that MAYBE PERHAPS if stars collided and Lindsay Lohan took responsibility for something, we might get a little bit of a “wintry mix”. I hate that term- it’s just weatherperson speak for “might be rain, might be a blizzard, but hey, we get paid lots of money to have absolutely no f***ing clue what will actually happen!”

That mere mention of a wintry mix was enough to send half the state swarming into the grocery stores to buy milk and break. Any time there’s the remotest chance of so much as a flurry, South Carolinians go clean the stores out of milk and bread. Honest to God, vegans with wheat allergies will throw elbows at old ladies for the last package of pitas and a carton of buttermilk. Here’s my question:
WHAT THE F*** IS UP WITH MILK AND BREAD, PEOPLE?
What is it about those two food items that make them indispensable in inclement weather? Milk will spoil when a blackout kills the power to your fridge. Bread is not some superfood that will sustain your family for days should you be trapped in your home by the treacherous conditions. (Note: “treacherous conditions”= 1 inch of snow and temps in the mid-20s.)

Husband and I don’t usually make the emergency grocery run. That’s because we know that pizza delivery is a lot like the post office… you know, neither rain nor sleet nor snow nor dark of night shall keep them from their appointed rounds? Unfortunately, it’s about the same level of accuracy, too…

We WILL, however, make a much more important stop: the liquor store. Because the pizza guy won’t bring you red wine or vodka no matter how much you offer to tip. (Trust us.) And they totally should- can you imagine the money those poor minimum wage drivers would make? And how many DUIs could be avoided?

Seriously, sometimes I am so damn civic-minded, it makes me weep.